


How Do You Sleep?

by Anonymous



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aphrodisiacs, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Choking, Cigarettes, Coercion, Crying, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Feminization, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Foot Massage, Forced Orgasm, Groupies, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Mental Breakdown, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Touching, Not a Love Story, Object Insertion, Objectification, Obsession, Oral Sex, Questionable Justifications, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reluctant Submission, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sexual Harassment, Smoking, Somnophilia, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, Violence, Voice Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 146,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27536242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Paul became more irresistible with every passing day. John decided to take matters into his own hands.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 150
Kudos: 320
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve posted a controversial story like this before under anonymous, (Fixing a Hole). Remember, please please take note of the warnings. Some people like reading screwed up things, but if you’re troubled by the content please please avoid it. 
> 
> Again, this story is more of an obsession/infatuation one, not a love story. Though as the narrator, John justifies his actions, I'm fully aware how screwed up they are. Don’t do this.

**1964**

  
Paul became more irresistible with every passing day.

  
  


It was maddening. When John had first met him at age 14, he noticed Paul bore a passing resemblance to Elvis. He thought it was neat and all, but he didn’t know that Paul would grow up to look like _this_.

Though he couldn’t be mistaken for a woman, Paul definitely had a feminine beauty to him. He moved like one. The delicate features of his face were obvious to see, his full delicate lips that were often parted, soft cheeks, seashell ears, dark lidded eyes with long dark eyelashes, and dark arched eyebrows. Paul could also open his eyes wider, making them much larger and so expressive. When relaxed, his arched eyebrows could give him an intense or aloof look about him. Paul’s soft dark hair along with his eyes provided lovely contrast to his pale skin, the length of it further softening his facial features. 

Paul was still a man. He had a brow ridge as well as the ability to grow facial hair. By the end of the day, Paul would develop a slight 5 o’ clock shadow.

On further consideration, Paul wasn’t beautiful because he looked like a woman. He had a unique beauty that surpassed most of them.

Though Paul had a delicate beauty about him, just as captivating was his endearingly exaggerated way of smiling. His soft cheeks would bunch up, and his nose would wrinkle, laugh lines appearing on his pretty face as he opened his mouth wide, showing off his rabbit-like front teeth. 

Additionally, Paul’s body had a feminine shape to it. Of course, it was subtler, Paul’s shoulders were broad, and his waist wasn’t as small as a woman’s would be, and Paul had toned arms and legs. That being said, the femininity was there. It was just the way he _carried_ himself as well. Paul’s body dipped at the waist, curving out into his hips. His legs were long and shapely, curving from the thigh, to the knee, from his calve to his ankle. The tight trousers they all wore definitely flattered them. Paul’s skin wasn’t as pliant as a woman’s, but it was pale and soft. His slight body fat smoothed out his edges.

Paul’s back also had an arch to it, a feminine curve from from his shoulder blades to his rear. That in particular caused John ample grief. It was perky and smooth, not geometric like it was on most men. If John saw him from the back, a bit further away, without his glasses, he would surely assume Paul was a broad. 

A distinctly masculine characteristic of Paul was his large hands and forearms. He had quite a bit of soft hair on them. The hands were still very lovely and delicate, with long slender fingers. Paul’s hands were smaller than John’s too, with soft padding and the calluses on his fingertips. John wanted to put his mouth on them.

Paul had a deep voice, but it was gentle and melodic. It wasn’t rough or harsh as John’s was. Suppose the pitch shouldn’t matter if you had a voice like Paul’s. He used it to sing his sweet ballads, but could inexplicably switch to Little Richard-esque shrieking at the drop of a hat.

  
  


With every passing day Paul became even more so irresistible. It was maddening.

  
  


It was getting harder for John to put up with. He got on alright with Paul. His musical partnership with him was what had made John so successful for Christ’s sake. Paul was a dear friend to him. He just couldn’t fucking take it anymore.

As Paul’s beauty increased with each passing day, so did John’s hunger. If it got any worse, he might just end up lunging at Paul one of these days, taking him right then and there on the floor. He wanted to bite into Paul’s soft pale skin, leaving dark red marks. He wanted to pull Paul’s soft dark hair, the perfect length to yank on. He wanted to make Paul cry out in that irresistible voice of his. He wanted to press himself hard against Paul’s heated body, feel Paul’s shaky breath in his ear and quick heartbeat. He wanted to feel Paul’s long shapely legs wrapped tight around him as he obliterated that perky little ass of his. 

Despite how much his unrelenting lust for Paul gnawed at him, destroying him from within, Paul was still his close friend of seven years. John did care for him. Truly. He didn’t want to harm Paul. He didn’t want to jeopardize all they’ve achieved, either. 

Regardless, John needed to satiate his desire somehow. If he didn’t, he may actually end up hurting Paul in some way. The frustration could only build up inside him for so long. 

He decided on a simple solution that would go into effect later this evening.

  
  
  


As the day came to a close, they found themselves back in their hotel suite. 

It was all quite convenient. They got two double rooms to themselves during tours, in addition to a sitting area and such. Paul happened to room with him quite often. John could easily do what he needed to, and arouse no suspicion whatsoever. Paul would wake up exactly where he expected to be, none the wiser to whatever John would do to him. 

They ended the day by hanging around their suite, drinking beverages brought up to them by the hotel staff. When none of his friends were looking, John snuck a sedative into Paul’s glass, nobody the wiser. Why would they even suspect John of anything? What would they expect John to even gain from drugging Paul? 

He was completely free from suspicion. There were virtually no obstacles keeping John from taking what he wanted. It was handed to him on a platter. John’s eyes scanned over his friends, a grin on his face.

It wasn’t long before the sedative began taking effect on Paul. His fluid manner of speaking began to slow, and Paul became groggier. He began to space out, and lose track of the conversation. His large eyelids began to feel heavy. Paul looked around foggily, thoughts beginning to lose coherence. His movements became sluggish, and he sunk into the armchair he was sitting in.

“Alright there, Paul?

Paul’s eyes opened again slightly, at hearing his name.

“What’s up?” Paul said. It was a bit slurred.

“Alright?” John repeated.

Paul hesitated, processing the question. His eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah,” He said after a moment, the grogginess apparent in his voice. “Jus’ tired s’all”

“You look right pissed, man. I think you gotta call it.” George said. 

Paul nodded, eyelids falling shut. He strained to lift himself up by the armrests. He dragged himself into his room, luckily not losing consciousness before reaching the bed, considering the “poomf” sound that rang out.

John waited a moment before saying:

“I think I’ll turn in too. S’getting late.” 

He gave a parting wave to his friends, before getting up to join Paul in their room.

“Yer right, s’ pretty late. We’ll turn in too after a sec. Night.”

“Night.”

John gave them a smile, then made toward the door as his friends wrapped up the conversation amongst themselves. 

  
  


John entered the dark room, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room in a soft glow. John picked up his glasses from his nightstand. He didn’t like to wear them, but if he was going through all this trouble, he might as well get a good look at Paul.

Paul had fallen unconscious on one of the beds, not having time to undress or get under the duvet. He was laying on his left side, soft breaths making his chest expand and contract. The side of his face was smushed into the pillow, his arms laid out in front of him, slightly bent, his right hand gently resting on his left wrist.

Paul looked very peaceful, as if he’d gone to sleep of his own free will. His dark eyelashes rested on his soft pale cheeks, a lovely contrast to his pale skin. Paul’s dark arched eyebrows were relaxed. His lips were parted, showing off his cute teeth, as he made soft even breaths in his sleep, slightly drooling onto the pillow.

Luckily, he’d taken off his suit jacket earlier that night. The thin fabric of the collared shirt stretched over him, the position wrinkling it. Fortunately for his comfort, Paul had also loosened his tie earlier, though it was still looped around his neck. His dark hair was mussed up where it rested on the pillow.

The dip in his waist was very prominent when he laid like this. The tight trousers they wore had been quite the pain for John. The high rise accentuated Paul’s feminine hips, his shirt tucking in right where his waist was the smallest. It also clung to him quite tightly, showing off his shapely legs and rear. It was true that Paul had no breasts, but there was another area the fabric stretched over a sexual characteristic. Paul’s long legs bent at the knee as he lay, splaying out in front of him. 

They wouldn’t be disturbed. The others would likely soon be asleep, assuming that John and Paul were doing the same. Nobody would suspect anything amiss. John had retired to his and Paul’s shared room as he always did. Why would anything peculiar be happening? Tonight of all nights?

John made his way over to Paul, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Paul didn’t notice, or even stir. He was out like a light, just as John had intended.

Still, he hesitated to touch Paul. Touching him would make things real, making it not just a nagging frustration in his head. Once he put his hands on Paul in a suggestive manner, there was no going back. 

He also half-expected Paul to wake up. It did seem that Paul was only sleeping. If Paul woke up, he’d ask John what he was doing.

But he wouldn’t wake up.

John took the plunge. He curled his hand around Paul’s hip. He waited a moment. He could explain this much if Paul woke up. John could say he was just trying to get his attention. He needed to tell him something.

Paul still didn’t stir.

Nothing John did could wake him up, he knew this.

John’s grip tightened, feeling the meat of Paul’s thigh, the hardness of his hip bone. The familiar hunger made itself known inside him.

John rolled Paul onto his back. The back of Paul’s head rested on the soft pillow. Paul’s serene expression was unaffected, making him look more angelic than ever, though John knew how much of a bastard he really was. Paul was controlling, promiscuous, and foul-mouthed, not quite the beacon of purity the press painted him as. If anything, he was just a more agreeable version of John, preoccupied with maintaining his clean image. 

“Christ, what am I doing…” John muttered.

A part of him was screaming not to go through with this. Paul was his friend. John did care for him. As he looked down at him, he recognized him as just that: his good friend. He was violating Paul in a way by doing this. 

They’d been through a lot together. Paul was the other half of their songwriting partnership, and John owed half his success to him. As he looked down at his friend’s gentle face, he felt a platonic affection. Paul was in essence his brother.

Though, the other side of John actively lusted after him. He looked down at him and his hunger grew. Paul’s gentle, innocent face, breathing softly as he slept, was driving him completely mad. Every fibre of John wanted to devour him, tear him apart limb from limb. If he didn’t satiate his hunger, it would only get worse. This way would be kinder to Paul.

“Sorry, Macca.” John said under his breath.

Paul lay before him, eyes shut and blissfully unaware. He was miles away, his mind floating along the rivers of his subconscious. He looked so peaceful, a serene expression on his pretty face. The intensity and excitability of his waking self had melted away. Paul did look angelic like this, lacking the everpresent impurity that made itself known just beyond the eyes. 

Paul’s dark eyelashes rested gently on his pale cheeks, eyelids relaxed. His breaths came softly from those parted lips, delicate and pink. He had drooled a bit on the bottom one, making the dim light from the lamp shine onto it. John pressed his thumb against Paul's bottom lip. It was soft and full.

Paul would be quite alright, John reasoned. Once the morning came, Paul would have no recollection of the night. Paul would be unaffected, and their lives could go on as usual. Paul couldn’t resent John for something he couldn’t remember, nor would John harm him. He wasn’t even planning to fuck Paul. All John wanted to do was look at his sweet body. All of it. John only wanted to touch him.

If he tried anything on an awake Paul, that would lead to a violent confrontation. Paul was fully capable of fighting him off despite his pretty face. Paul was much stronger than he looked, taller than him too. Even if John had the upper hand and bound Paul, he would never submit to it, shouting and cursing at him, still trying to beat him away. When he ultimately gave in, submitting to his fate, Paul would weep, causing John’s heart to break. Paul would never forgive him, and things would never go back to the way they were before.

Yes, this was the much kinder option.

John ran his hands up Paul’s clothed thighs, the trouser fabric dragging against his palms. 

“Christ, Paul.” John said. 

His grasp on Paul’s thighs became tighter, feeling how soft yet firm they were. John massaged his fingers into them, inching closer to Paul’s groin. 

Any reservations John had before faded as the familiar hunger bloomed inside him. He’d been craving Paul for much too long, but he’d finally gotten his hands on him. Feeling up those shapely legs gave him immense satisfaction that he could only dream of. Paul had been a thorn in his side for the longest time. This would show him. Fucking tease.

John felt inclined to grab Paul by the groin, much like he’d do with a girl’s breast. It was a very similar effect, the way the fabric stretched over the area. John’s hand shot to it, grabbing Paul roughly through his trousers.

A quiet but high pitched gasp escaped Paul’s lips, and his body stiffened up. John’s eyes shot up. 

Paul hadn’t woken up, but his eyebrows were furrowed in discomfort, teeth gritted. John released the tight grip and Paul relaxed. Not quite like a tit, John supposed.

John began to apply lighter touches, gently palming and stroking his hand over Paul’s crotch. Paul’s face contorted again, though in confusion, feeling the intimate sensation through the material.

“There you are.” John cooed to him. 

Paul’s eyebrows were still drawn, probably trying to make sense of what was happening as he slept. He looked so vulnerable like this. It made John feel a strange sense of responsibility. 

During the day Paul had an air of confidence about him. His arched eyebrows gave him the ability to emasculate somebody with an intense look. Paul’s delicate features didn’t hinder him whatsoever when it came to asserting dominance. There was no doubt that they had equal footing in their partnership.

At this moment, however, Paul’s barriers were lowered, and the power the dynamic had shifted. He was completely at John's mercy.

That must be why John felt this way. He was obligated to be kind to Paul.

Paul made a strained exhale as the touches slowly made him erect. A quiet groan escaped his hips. Paul unconsciously shifted his hips, trying to figure out where the stimulation was coming from. John traced the outline of Paul’s erect member through the material.

“That’s it.” 

John spoke gently to Paul. Though Paul couldn’t hear him, the kind words and tone would register in his subconscious, soothing him. It was important to John that Paul was comfortable.

It was strange, sure, to be stroking a knob like this. That part was decidedly masculine. It was quite worth it though, getting these reactions from Paul.

John switched to the task of undressing him. 

Sure, he’d had brief glaces of Paul in various states of undress, but he was careful not to make his gaze linger. With all of their years traveling, performing, along with the close quarters, he was bound to unintentionally see glimpses of his friends. It wasn’t that big of a deal. 

This context was completely different, though. This wasn’t unintentional. John was actively seeking this out. He had all the time in the world to admire Paul’s body tonight. 

John would take his time with this. Savor it. He wouldn’t abuse Paul’s trust like this again, feel up his dear friend’s unconscious body. Yes. John wouldn’t do this again.

John undid Paul’s tie, tossing it aside. He began to undo Paul’s shirt buttons, taking his time, slowly revealing more of Paul’s sweet pale skin. He got halfway down before feeling compelled to press it against his mouth. 

Paul didn’t have any tits, but his chest was warm, soft, and inviting. Hell, John had been with bonier women, much less enticing than Paul was. He pressed his lips to the center of Paul’s chest, feeling its warmth. Even Paul’s scent was addicting, as lovely as sweet as he was. John could feel Paul’s body heat radiating off his skin, the slight movement of his breaths, Paul’s gentle heartbeat.

After a moment, John lifted off. He resumed the ubuttoning of Paul’s shirt, pulling it out from where it tucked into his trousers. Yes, the way it tucked into them caused John ample grief, accentuating the dip in Paul’s waist, the material of his slim trousers stretching over Paul’s full thighs and rear. 

John gave another gentle squeeze to Paul’s erection, causing him to hum sweetly. He went on to slide off the rest of Paul’s shirt. It was a bit hard to lift his body up. Paul was heavy, not quite a dainty little woman.

Paul’s bare chest was nothing new to him. John had seen this much before, Paul’s soft torso and toned arms. Paul’s neck was thicker than a woman’s would be, and he had an adam’s apple. He also had slight hair on his chest where a woman wouldn’t, in addition to the thicker forearms and underarm hair. John didn’t mind it, really. It was dark and soft to the touch, warmed by Paul’s body heat. Paul’s puffies were lovely as well, pink and enticing on his soft chest. John noticed a freckle by Paul’s right one that he couldn’t have seen without his glasses. John stroked it with his finger.

He’d seen Paul in various stages of undress, as well as in bathing suits. John had never looked though. This was new, seeing Paul lay still, bathed in the soft light of the lamp, much clearer with his glasses on.

John ran his hands up Paul’s sides, getting a fair amount of pleasure at the soft warm skin sliding against his palms. When he got to them, John grazed his thumbs harshly against Paul’s sweet little puffies. Paul stiffened when John did this, inhaling sharply, eyebrows furrowing.

Oh ho!

John rubbed his thumbs across them again, up and down. His fingers were still curled around Paul’s sides. Paul reacted accordingly, a rumbly groan coming from deep in his throat. His eyebrows were drawn, the sensation making itself known through his slumber.

Paul likes having his chest played with does he? John grinned maniacally. There was no way in hell he would’ve found if it wasn’t for this. Paul would’ve never revealed something like this to John, even if his life depended on it. He liked getting his tits touched like a bird! Holy shit!

Paul turned his head slightly, releasing another grumbly exhale as John continued touching them, stroking them between his forefinger and thumb. He rubbed circles into them, pinching them as they hardened into little nubs. Paul shifted his leg, dragging his foot up the blankets. 

Christ, this was incredible! Despite wanting to put his hands on that sweet chest, John didn’t expect Paul to react like this. It was fucking brilliant. 

John pinched them harder, pulling them, experimenting with what sounds he could get out of Paul. Paul opened his mouth, stretching his lips over his teeth in a pained expression when John’s touches got harsher.

“S’alright, I’ll be gentle.” John said quietly. 

Though he couldn’t respond, it was nice speaking to him, as if Paul was actually present. He was in a way, as he could feel the sensations and interpret the tone of John’s voice. Paul wasn’t a lifeless object that he was toying with after all. He was John’s dear friend. 

John brought his face down to one of them, taking the nub in his mouth, pressing his tongue against it. It felt heavenly, he just wanted to bite into that soft chest. John sucked on it for a bit, getting deep enjoyment from Paul’s quiet grumbles of pleasure. He bit it softly, causing Paul to let out an audible “ah” sound.

John moved to the other one, applying the same treatment, relishing in the lovely noises he got from it.

John pulled back, looking down at his friend. Paul was straining even more desperately than before against his trousers, a slight wet spot appearing at the tip.

“Let me get that for ya.” John said under his breath.

He unzipped the chelsea boots Paul had still been wearing when he passed out. John took off his socks as well, then undid Paul’s fly, releasing the tension there. He then tugged off his trousers and briefs.

When he was finished, Paul’s long shapely legs stretched over the duvet, one of them slightly bent at the knee. John hesitated for a moment, taking in the sight in front of him, salivating.

  
  


Paul’s legs were toned, but there was a softness to them, along with his delicate pale skin. He had full thighs that curved into his ass, John knew that much. With his glasses on, John could see how much hair was on them, the dark color contrasting with the pale skin. It became increasingly soft and thick as it reached his pubic hair, the fluff on his thighs curling endearingly. 

Sure enough, Paul had a knob. He was a man after all, he couldn’t dispute that. Without the fabric trapping it, it strained upwards, fully aroused. 

It was quite pretty, John noticed. It wasn’t unsightly or grotesque like a lot of them were, they were organs after all. The blood flow gave it an even pink hue that matched Paul’s lips. It looked like a candy, all smooth and delectable as it swelled with need. It curved evenly upwards, and twitched against the cold air. It made sense that a man as lovely as Paul would have a knob to match.

A smug satisfaction came over John when he realized he was bigger than Paul, if only by half an inch. It also pleased him that he was the one that got it to this point, despite the fact Paul wasn’t aware where the sensations were coming from.

Experimentally, John ran a finger gently along the spine, from the base to the tip. He watched how Paul sharply turned his head to the side, giving a short harsh exhale.

John realized he quite liked Paul’s thick pubic hair. It was very fluffy and soft, dampening from the condensation of his arousal.

He lifted one of Paul’s legs, watching the knee bend. It was rather heavy. This exposed more of Paul’s more intimate areas.

It was now or never. John ran his hand along the inside of Paul’s thigh, the soft hair brushing against him. The skin was warmer here.

John brought his face closer, inhaling the intoxicating scent of Paul’s arousal. He made himself lean back. Not yet. John wanted to take his time. He moved down Paul’s body. 

John had an odd fascination with feet for as long as he could remember. They were on the same level as breasts to him. Paul definitely had nice ones. He had very high arches, and flexed them even when relaxed, giving the impression he still had on his chelsea boots. They were larger than a woman’s, but so delicate. Paul’s ankles curved from his legs beautifully, and similar to his hands, they were soft and padded. It made John’s mouth water. He wanted to take in their scent, feel the soft yet firm skin of the soles against his tongue. He couldn’t indulge in them, not until today that is. 

John took them in each hand, pressing his thumbs into the padding, testing out their pliancy. They were firm, but the skin was equally soft. John massaged the arches, soothing the tension there. Paul sighed from above him. It must hurt to walk on them for an extended amount of time, having such dramatic arches. A thrill ran through John when they flexed in his grip. John applied more pressure, feeling the coarser skin drag across his fingers. 

Paul would probably appreciate John doing this even if he weren’t sedated. It would be embarrassing though, giving his friend a foot rub. How emasculating. No, though he didn’t mind giving Paul the pleasure, this was mostly for John’s own enjoyment. They turned him on sexually, feet did. Nevertheless, they would feel better the next morning. 

Unable to hold back another second, John pressed his cheek to the sole, feeling the skin graze against his face. He stifled a groan. He pressed his nose against it, inhaling deeply. Why did he like this so much? It wasn’t something he heard about often. Maybe it was just something people didn’t talk about.

Still holding it against his face, John pressed a firm wet kiss to the arch. He pulled back slightly, and used his thumb to massage the underside of paul’s curled toes. They were so rounded and cute, free of any unsightly blemishes. He took them in his mouth, running his tongue over them. He tried to suck them deeper, exploring the area with his tongue. Delicious. He gave a similar treatment to the other foot.

Doing this had made John fully aroused, if he wasn’t before. For good measure, he massaged the arches, watching how Paul flexed his foot for better relief.

When John had his fill, he looked back up at his friend. Paul’s arousal had lessened when John’s focus shifted away from it, but it seemed he’d enjoyed the administrations nonetheless.

John felt compelled to feel him up one more time before returning to Paul’s arousal.

He ran his hands along Paul’s toned legs, massaging them as he did for the feet. It was mostly for John’s enjoyment again, getting pleasure from sinking his fingers into the firm skin, squeeze it, trace the contours. John kneaded his fingers into Paul’s calves, raising his knee as he did so. Paul was making favorable sounds from his throat, enjoying being fussed over. As John’s touches nearned more intimate areas, Paul’s arousal began to gradually fill again.

John moved up his legs slowly. Paul’s full thighs were one of his main vices. He pressed hard into Paul’s quadriceps and hamstrings. They were so firm despite their proportional softness. The soft hair brushed against his hands. It was quite soft up here, as he could tell from looking at it. He moved up to Paul’s adductors, where the hair was quite thick and soft. The scent coming from there was intoxicating, the source of Paul’s arousal. It’s scent was distinctly Paul’s, though needier, quite clearly conveying his sexual desire. 

John moved slowly up to that, before stroking Paul’s adductors, massaging the more intimate muscles. John pushed the thighs apart from there, causing more of Paul’s scent to waft out. He pressed his palms flat to Paul’s inner thighs, holding them open. Paul’s stomach was very soft, the pubic hair tapering off just before his navel. Though Paul was strong, with tone on his arms and legs, he did have a slight bit of fat on his body that made his angles less harsh. His stomach and sides were soft, giving him that feminine appeal, transitioning into those full thighs. 

Finally, John brought his face closer, closing his eyes, taking in that intoxicating scent. He lowered himself further down.

John’s eyes shot open when he felt Paul’s heated needy head touch his cheek. Right.

It still felt strange to consider that there was a knob involved, something John had as well. It reacted the same way when touched, getting erect when aroused. If he brought Paul to orgasm, Paul would ejaculate, releasing semen. Paul was a man. 

In all honesty, it didn’t bother John too much. So what if it was a knob? It was a rather pretty one, very delicate and enticing, just as Paul was. 

John looked up from Paul’s erection to his sweet sleeping face.

It didn’t count if it was Paul’s. This was how he communicated his arousal, where he got sexual pleasure, so it was quite alright.

John wrapped his hand around the shaft experimentally. He’d only done this to himself, so this was new to him. He looked back to Paul’s face. He wondered how Paul would like it.

He gripped it harder, heat radiating off the shaft. It was swelled with blood, aroused and ready, Paul’s heartbeat coursing through it. Paul’s eyebrows furrowed again, feeling the sensation. He tried to shift his hips out of instinct.

Still with a firm hold on it, John stroked the side of it with his thumb, watching how Paul reacted, sharply exhaling. Paul’s body had stiffened up, aware of the pleasure. John grinned at this. He focused on Paul’s frenulum, rubbing circles around it. Paul’s breaths were strained.

John gave it an experimental pump, maintaining the pressure of his grip. Paul’s slightly parted lips opening further, his cute teeth now visible. The arousal was so hard and heated. Despite the skin there being quite delicate, Paul’s erection was painfully stiff.

He could tell Paul was enjoying this, but he still seemed confused, not quite aware of what was happening. He would shift his head to the side, tilt his hips out of curiosity.

“It’s alright, Paul.” John said sweetly. He kept stroking him with a firm grip, albeit slowly. He didn’t want Paul to cum just yet. He wanted to draw it out, experiencing all of Paul’s sweet reactions.

John had seen Paul in the circle jerks back in ‘62, though it was a bit hard to make things out in the darkness. A dim glow sometimes would catch one of Paul’s scrunched up cheeks, or create a subtle outline around his body. Paul would arch his back as he touched himself, his left arm moving at a slow, yet gradually increasing speed, likely imagining what Bridgette Bardot would look like as she rode him. It was in bad taste to make too much noise at these circle jerks, but if John paid close attention, he could hear a sharp breath, or a low quiet moan from Paul. He had to admit, that sometimes would be what pushed him over the edge.

John sped his hand up reflexively, watching Paul’s face contort. He tilted his head to the side, gritting his rabbit teeth. Paul didn’t know what was happening, but he felt all of it. Strained exhales escaped from his lips as his breaths became shallower.

“Getting worked up, are we?” John taunted.

The power John had over him was admittedly satisfying. They normally had equal footing, despite Paul being two years younger. Paul was so strong-willed as well, pushing for things to be done the way he wanted, always forcing his own perspective. Now, Paul couldn’t tell him what to do, being all nice and compliant. That’ll show him for being such a tease.

John forced himself to slow down. Not yet, Paul. He stopped his hand, and Paul let out a frustrated grumble, his stiffy still throbbing in John’s grip. His head turned to the side, and he shifted his spread thighs. Paul must be confused why the stimulation had ended so abruptly.

“Patience, Paul.” John cooed.

A bead of precum had slipped from Paul’s silt, rolling down the side, and leaking onto John’s fingers. John wanted to taste it.

Still gripping it in his hand, John brought his face closer, pressing his lips firmly to the rubbery head. The scent itself was hypnotic. John pressed his tongue flat against the slit. It tasted as nice as he expected, so needy. John swirled his tongue around the head, feeling the rubbery texture. It was so heated, throbbing along with Paul’s heartbeat. He knew in the back of his mind, that he was putting his mouth on another man’s arousal, but it didn’t count, as it was Paul’s.

Paul’s slot leaked more as he stimulated it, releasing more of that delectable fluid. It was all rather addicting.

John took the head in his mouth, it felt so nice inside of it, swollen and heated, the rubbery skin and sweet taste. When he went deeper, he noticed how delicate the skin past the head really was, covering such a stiff object.

As he was already holding the shaft in his fist, John focused more on Paul’s head. He traced every inch of it with his tongue, exploring each sensitive crevice. He ran it over Paul’s silt, the frenulum, the ridge where his shaft began.

Paul’s breaths were deeper, longer, fully taking in these sensations. He held very still, flexing his thigh muscles at times. 

John dragged his tongue down the spine of it. It had become so stiff. He moved his lips over Paul’s balls, sucking on the skin quite gently as not to hurt him. He moved even lower, pressing his mouth to Paul’s perineum, sensation’s Paul probably hadn’t explored himself. Paul’s dick was still desperately straining for more stimulation, weeping with need. John would get to it in a moment. 

At any other time, John would be disgusted at where he was putting his mouth, but he was too far gone to care, overtaken with lust. All he wanted to do was put his mouth on each and every one of Paul’s erogenous zones. 

It wasn’t quite like eating a girl out. It was much tighter, though it clenched around his tongue like it wanted more. Paul seemed to be enjoying it still, if his labored breaths were anything to go by. John had been winding him up for quite a bit after all.

Paul’s scent was quite strong here, as John’s nose was buried in the thick hair. As the small entrance tightened around his tongue, all he could think about was how nice it would feel like clenching around something else.

John wouldn’t fuck him, He kept repeating that inside his head. He would not fuck Paul. He would only look at and touch him. He wouldn’t fuck Paul. He would only look and touch. It was getting increasingly difficult as John’s own arousal nagged at him. 

Once Paul’s entrance was stretched out slightly and lubricated, John pulled back, and pressed his finger against the rim.

John had heard that men had erogenous zones on the inside, towards the front of their bodies. John didn’t know why men would have something like that, but if so, he wanted to find it.

He applied pressure to the little entrance, Paul wincing as John’s index finger slowly slid inside. 

John pushed it deeper, waiting for Paul to adjust, before feeling around the soft inner walls. It was quite hot inside, and hugged his finger snugly. He wasn’t going to fuck Paul tonight, he repeated to himself.

John kept trying to find that spot, feeling around Paul’s front side, his palm facing upwards.

John slid over a slight protrusion, and Paul drew a sharp breath, hips flexing. 

That must be it.

John pressed harder, focusing on that one spot. Paul became restless again, rolling his head slowly from side to side. His legs shifted around in their spread position.

  
  


“It’s alright, Paul.” John said under his breath, placating him.

It tightened even more around his finger, trying to suck him deeper inside. The walls were so smooth, so tight and hot. It clenched around him wonderfully.

He wasn’t going to fuck Paul, he repeated. He wouldn’t do that to him. That seemed a step too far. John couldn’t come back from that. Even if Paul never found out, it would always be a part of him, walking around blissfully unaware that John fucked him, that he’d deflowered him, claimed him. How could John look him in the eyes after that, knowing what he did? All because he couldn’t control his own desires? Paul would never be the same to him.

Paul shifted his hips as John roughly rubbed into that spot inside him. His head was tilted back, his face contorted.

“I’m sorry.” John whispered. It had to be this way, but John wouldn’t fuck him.

It seemed that Paul was rather enjoying it. Some of his exhales were even audible, breathy high pitched whines from high in his throat. 

John wrapped his hand back around Paul’s shaft, and began to stroke it off slowly with the same firm hold as before, stimulating both at once.

Paul let another low groan from his chest. His eyebrows were drawn. He seemed to be trying to pursue the sensations without direction, attempting to toss and turn. Still, Paul would have been more fitful if he wasn’t sedated. John made sure to hold him still, making him take the pleasure being given to him.

John took one of Paul’s soft puffies in his mouth as well, nibbling on it. Paul’s whimpers were even clearer now through his grumbling.

He lifted his head back up when Paul’s sounds were getting more desperate. John sped up the pace, grinning impishly at the condition Paul was in, his cute little face contorted in need.

“Are ya gonna cum, Paul?” John taunted, as if he were just playing a prank at Paul’s expense. _Got you, made you cum in your sleep. What’s more, you came from getting fingered like a bird._

John knew that wasn’t the case, however. This is something he’d sought out, something he’d been craving. John wanted to see this. He wanted Paul to cum from his administrations. John wanted to hear the sounds he made, watch Paul’s muscles tense up as he released his sweet fluids. John wanted to taste it. 

Paul shifted more. John couldn’t tell if he was trying to avoid the touches, or get more of it. Paul twisted in John’s hold and whined. He didn’t know which movements would bring him closer to his release. It wouldn’t be long now.

Paul’s mouth was slack, drool making its way to his bottom lip. Paul was so prideful and composed when awake, but in his condition, the only thing cognizant within him was his primal desire to reach orgasm. He had no cares for how he was coming off, or that John’s fingers were in his ass pleasuring him.

John took that full bottom lip in his mouth, sucking off the saliva gathered there. A wave of lust coarsed through him when Paul moaned at the sensation. 

John began attacking that sweet little mouth, sucking in that sweet pink tongue that helped him sing such sweet ballads. He bit down on Paul’s bottom lip, careful not to draw blood. Each strained exhale Paul made, each sweet sound, went straight to John’s arousal. The taste was addicting, the heat and moisture of Paul’s mouth.

When Paul finally reached climax, he let out a prolonged strained groan as John kept a hold on his bottom lip. Paul’s hips shifted around, releasing hot liquid all over his own pale body, the baby fat on his face scrunching up.

It should be gross to John, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t like watching some other man orgasm, Paul was in a category of his own. Paul’s deep noises he made were intoxicating, as sweet and melodic as his singing voice was. 

Paul’s back arched, his chest reaching up to touch John’s, filling him with excitement.

“I got ya.” He cooed, riding Paul through it. Paul’s shut eyelids twitched, pressing his lips together as he whined.

Paul came down from it, breaths evening out, the afterglow making him drift back into deep sleep. His chest rose and fell, already forgetting the sensations he’d received, oblivious to his fluids that were now drying on his soft chest and stomach.

John gathered some of it on his finger out of curiosity, tasting it. It was incredible. 

A more primal part of him took over, and he began to lick it off Paul’s supple body, tongue against that soft pale skin, gentle breathing, gentle heartbeat.

John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking down at what he had done, his friend sleeping sweetly, head resting on the pillow. A part of him was disgusted. This was his best friend of seven years. John was betraying his trust, laying his hands on him.

But John also felt vindicated. Paul was a thorn in his side for too long, and got just what he deserved for being a tease.

And there he lay, his pretty little face, all serene and oblivious to what had happened to him. Paul looked so innocent when he was asleep, his true perverse and hubristic nature absent, his angelic features taking over. 

Nothing wound John up like that pretty little angel face. There was nothing like seeing it contorted in pleasure. He glared down at it, beginning to pleasure himself.

Fucking Paul. Fucking whore. Fucking prick-teaser. He’d get what was coming to him. John had been secually frustrated for years. No matter how many girls he’d fucked, he’d never get Paul. Well he had him now, didn’t he? Right where he wanted him. He’d give Paul that had been building up inside him for all these years, saving just for him. He was going to unload all of it, right on that pretty little face.

Pretty little lips all parted as Paul exhaled, soft full cheeks. What a fucking stupidly sweet face. John knew what a cunt he really was. Fuck him for having it, and fuck all the girls who thought he could care for them.

Just as John was about to finish, he noticed Paul’s freckles. They were very faint, he realized he could only see them now that he had his glasses on. They were light brown, and dotted his cheeks and his little nose.

In hindsight, that was what pushed John over the edge.

He released onto his friend’s sleeping face, getting sick satisfaction watching the fluid spurt onto him. It landed on Paul’s soft cheeks, his parted lips, and pretty eyelids, getting on his long eyelashes. It felt like he was defiling Paul in a way. If Paul ever found out he did this, it would completely mortify him. He would be beyond humiliated. That’s why it excited John so much. There wasn’t anything Paul could do to prevent this happening, he didn’t even notice, his mind miles away. John had marked his pretty face, claimed him. It felt good.

John gathered his own fluids on his finger, and wiped it across Paul’s bottom lip. He took a bit more of it, then pushed his thumb past Paul’s gently parted lips, opening his mouth wider, wiping it on his tongue. Now they’ve both had a taste of each other.

If just to mess with him, John pushed his thumb further into Paul’s mouth, causing him to make adorable gulping sounds as he gagged. It would be heavenly fucking that mouth, John thought to himself.

After John had revelled in the afterglow, breathing heavily as he stared down at Paul, a guilt came over him, seeing the fluid he’d released onto his friend’s face. The post orgasm clarity was settling in. Poor Paul, he’d be mortified if he knew what he’d done to his face. Paul might never find out, but John would always know what he’d done to him.

John went into their room’s bath and ran a towel under warm water. He returned to Paul’s sleeping body, running the washcloth over it, removing the evidence of what he had done. He ran the warm cloth over Paul’s forehead, underneath his bangs, over his cheeks. John’s heart sank when he saw the cum in Paul’s soft hair. He tried to clean it off with the cloth. What’d he done? Poor Paul. Poor thing.

He dressed Paul back in his day clothes, though not replacing his shoes, draping the duvet over him. Paul’s fluids had leaked inside his briefs and trousers from earlier, but John didn’t pay it no mind. Paul would just assume he had a wet dream.

John sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Paul’s soft hair as he slept. He felt bad for doing this to his friend, but it had to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I hate doing John dirty like this, he’s probably an okay guy irl.


	2. Chapter 2

When Paul awoke the next morning, he ran to the restroom to clean the mess he’d made of his trousers. 

John chuckled to himself, still in bed. Paul must’ve assumed he had a wet dream.

“I can’ believe I fell asleep in me clothes.” Paul said once he had freshened up. “Thanks for gettin’ my boots for me.”

“No problem.” John said from his bed. “Ya were right tuckered out last night.”

Paul wouldn’t be so quick to thank him if he knew the half of it.

  
  
  


John really thought that the previous night would’ve satiated him. He really did. 

John thought he’d do this terrible thing to his friend, just once, then the infatuation would end. Paul and him could live on happily, enjoying their fame and success.

Truly, John never wanted to have to lay his hands on Paul again.

Little did John know, getting a taste of it only made him crave Paul more. He was like a drug. You couldn’t just have Paul once then stop.

Now, when John's eyes followed Paul’s sweet body around the room, all he could imagine was what he might look like under all those clothes.

As Paul moved, the coarse material of his suit jacket stretched over his body, folds appearing as he moved and his arms bent. The suit jackets he wore reached just under Paul’s ass, leaving it to the imagination, but clung to the dip in his back, the curve of it pushing out the fabric. When Paul buttoned it, it singed at the waist, accentuating his hips.

Paul moved so gracefully, carrying himself so nicely. Was it intentional? Or was that just how he was? 

John was beginning to suspect the latter, considering how Paul looked as he came in his sleep. What kind of man came like that? Sure, Paul had his inhibitions lowered, drooling onto his lips, but he was still so lovely in his demeanor. When Paul came, he arched his back, turned his head, such gentle movements.

John felt a bit cheated at missing out on the full scope of noises Paul could make when getting pleasured. 

John knew he was loud. He’d seen what Paul was like, especially in the earlier days when they’d had to share close quarters. When John came to their (entire) band’s shared room whenever Paul was engaged with a hooker or fan, he’d hear those sounds. The polite thing was to dip out with a “sorry”, though John got a kick out of cutting up their clothing whilst the couple was preoccupied.

God, Paul could really use his voice. There must be some supernatural quality to it. Perhaps he really was a siren. In a way, John did feel that Paul was driving him mad, luring him to dangerous waters where he’d surely perish.

Paul’s exhales, sighs, and various other sounds caused a shot of desire to shoot through John. It was much too similar to how he’d sounded last night.

When Paul bent over slightly to pick up his guitar, John nearly blew his load then and there.

John knew what he wanted. The only thing that would truly satisfy him. He needed to fuck Paul. He needed to release his load right where it belonged: deep inside that sweet little perky rear.

Paul was quite heavy, John had figured out as much last night. Paul wasn’t exactly a dainty woman, and when limp, he was rather difficult to move. If John wanted to fuck him, Paul would need some level of cognizance. Besides this, of course, there was the pleasure of a more reactive Paul, not just quiet groans and slight movements.

John had decided on a lighter sedative.

It was a riskier option, though it may just be worth it. Paul wouldn’t be fully awake, but not completely unconscious either. If it all went according to plan, Paul would be reciprocative, though unaware of where he was and what was happening, and with no memory of the night.

This new sedative would put Paul in a deep trance. Compliant, but without a will of his own. Paul would be able to open his eyes and be guided by John, but by all means, he would be deeply asleep.

John was going to fuck him tonight.

  
  
  


That evening, his other friends had gone out, but he had told Paul he wanted to stay in and discuss some things about their next album. Paul had no reason to think anything was amiss.

As he did the previous evening, when Paul’s head was turned, John slipped the sedative into his glass.

John spoke to him as normal, about their music and songwriting, the direction of it all. John sipped from his drink, and so did Paul.

It wasn’t but a minute before Paul’s speech began to deteriorate. He began to lose his train of thought, stumbling over his words, trailing off.

“Alright, Paul?” John tried to mask it, but some amusement might’ve slipped through, a smug expression playing on his face.

Paul’s eyes were unfocused. He tried to say something, but it only came out as an unintelligible mumble.

“You good?” John repeated

Paul’s eyes were able to meet his, but John could tell he was having trouble focusing on him.

“Alright, Paul?”

“I…” Paul trailed off, eyes glassy. His gaze wandered aimlessly around the room.

“I think you’d ought to turn in for the night.” John said. He’d dropped any illusion of sincerity. He grinned smugly at Paul, taking amusement from his predicament. It was all so easy. “You seem right out of it.”

Paul only blinked at him, his lips parted. John sat up.

“C’mon,” he said.

John helped him to his feet. Paul was able to walk, but not very well without much of his assistance. John felt giddy as Paul’s body weight bore down on him, the warm body being pressed to his.

John helped him to their shared room, laying him down on his bed. 

“Anyone at home?” John said, hovering over him from the edge of the bed.

Paul’s eyes moved toward his voice, staring up at him foggily. Paul could hear the sounds, but his head was devoid of thoughts, essentially unconscious.

For good measure, John waved his hand in front of Paul’s face. Paul could focus on it for a moment, but then forget. John then clapped. Paul flinched at the noise, eyes flitting shut, eyebrows furrowing, but not much else. 

John still half expected him to snap out of it, eyes refocus and give him a strange look. Perhaps John would have his hand down his pants, and Paul would regain coherence then glare at him, appalled. 

It was sad in a way. Paul was always so lively. He was very excitable, a deep passion within him. He smiled and laughed easily, cheeks bunching up, eyes widening. He moved about quickly, spoke quickly, always needing something to do. His libido was just as excitable. He was quite like a rabbit in many ways, in his demeanor, his appearance, and lust.

At the moment, he just looked so empty. Like a shell of himself.

“Are ya there, Paul?” John asked a final time, hesitantly. Paul didn’t respond, his gaze immediately wandering.

Good.

John climbed onto the bed, straddling him, keeping Paul still.

He ran his hands along Paul’s sides as he did last night, enjoying the fabric drag across his palms.

Paul had been wearing a light blue suit that day. It was a lovely color on him, going nicely with his light skin and sweet dark brown hair. John liked the dark suits as well, accentuating his slim figure, bringing attention to Paul’s pretty face. The blue softened him though, giving him even more of an ethereal look.

John undid the coat buttons, slowly, taking his time. It revealed the thinner fabric of Paul’s collared shirt. He loosened Paul’s tie.

Paul just lay there, miles away, allowing all this to happen. His foggy eyes drifted over John occasionally, and John smiled sweetly at him. 

John unbuttoned some of the shirt, revealing Paul’s soft pale chest.

“There you are,” John said adoringly, under his breath. He placed a hand on Paul’s chest, looking up at him and smiling. “I’ll be good to you tonight.”

As with the previous night, speaking to Paul gave John some sort of comfort as if Paul was there with him. He wanted to let Paul know what he would be doing next. 

John cared for him. He cared for Paul’s comfort. He didn’t want to treat him like some lifeless fucktoy. Paul wasn’t a lifeless fucktoy, he was John’s dear friend.

John knew Paul wasn’t all there, but Paul could hear the tone of his voice. He’d be able to tell John was keeping him in mind. 

John didn’t want to think about Paul confused and afraid, unable to figure out what was happening to him, hands on him, unable to keep a thought in his head. John didn’t want that for him.

“How is it, Macca?” 

Paul grumbled in response, a nonverbal answer to words he couldn’t understand.

John stroked Paul’s chest, feeling the warmth, the soft heartbeat against his palm.

Paul had such a lovely eye color, John was glad that they were opened slightly. They were a greenish brown color, eyelashes casting shadows on the iris. John had worn his glasses again, not wanting to miss these little details, pride be damned.

He remembered noticing Paul’s light freckles last night because of it. John ran his fingertips along the delicate skin of Paul’s cheeks, over the bridge of his nose. He had such a dainty little nose. John smiled. The skin around his eyes and cheeks were pinker, a shade lighter than those pretty lips. Paul’s eyes foggily followed his finger.

“Beautiful, Paul.” John cooed.

Paul opened then closed his mouth wordlessly.

John made a lingering stroke against Paul’s soft cheek. He pushed Paul’s delicate top lip up with his index finger, revealing his cute teeth. John took a moment to admire him. 

Paul couldn’t focus on his gaze. He seemed far away, in his own world. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad if John thought of it as that. Paul would get bored during long commutes, mind wandering, a distant though lovely look on his face. Yes, it could be that sort of Paul. 

John continued to unbutton Paul’s shirt, untucking it from Paul’s trousers. The way the material stretched over Paul’s hips made John’s mouth water. The way the fabric bent to accommodate that sweet little prick. John knew what the area looked like bare, but there was something about leaving it to the imagination too.

John squeezed it there, not enough to hurt Paul like it did the previous time, but hard enough to stir the hunger inside John. Paul’s lips parted in surprise, a slight gasp escaping them.

“Too hard again?” John said softly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good to you tonight.”

John slowly undid Paul’s fly, then reached into his trousers, holding the soft warm member in his palm. It was quite delicate like this, not quite aroused, body temperature and pliant. John held it gently.

Paul groaned as the touches began, searching the air with his left hand. John kneaded it in his hand, causing it to stir.

“Shh, it’s alright.”

Paul may be confused, but he knew enough that it felt nice to him. Paul lightly pawed at the forearm touching him, as if to figure out what was giving him the sensation. Paul’s movements were clumsy, very slow. He was relying on touch as his eyes weren’t seeing much.

“Sweet thing.” John purred.

It was rather cute, Paul being in this trance, so curious. It was perfect. A sweet, and agreeable version of Paul that would let himself be fucked. Like a baby duckling.

There was no way in hell Paul would be this way if he weren’t sedated. The coherent Paul had a strong presence to him despite his beauty. Besides that, Paul was strong. Strong as him. He could take John in a fight.

This was a good look for Paul. Docile, lovely, submissive. No will of his own, allowing John to take what he wanted. The true personality to match his doe-like face.

Paul’s hand lightly curled around the forearm that slowly stroked him off, a tight grip on his member. Paul’s hands were only resting there, perhaps out of curiosity, a semblance of control maybe. The strength of Paul’s hold was negligible, and John could easy shake them off, and have Paul’s arms fall to his sides. John didn’t mind it though, it was endearing. It was Paul being reciprocal to him.

John continues the slow firm strokes.

“M’ gonna take ya tonight. Aren’t you glad?” John said softly.

Paul’s unfocused eyes followed the sound, looking up to meet his gaze. Paul furrowed his eyebrows, straining his eyes, trying to recognize him. It was an uphill battle, trying to make sense of things, all the while getting his knob played with.

“Yes?” John said.

“Mmmh” Paul mumbled. What a sweet deep voice he had.

Paul’s eyebrows were drawn as John got him hard. He shifted his hips around from instinct.

“Is it nice?” John asked him.

Paul parted his lips, eyes drifting . The touches made his exhales more shaky.

After a bit, John retreated his hand, Paul’s fingers easily becoming detached.

John slowly undressed Paul, revealing that soft, sweet, pale body he’d been missing. He was giddy with excitement, like he was unwrapping a birthday present. He was getting something he’d been looking forward to, after all.

John wasn’t stupid. He had bought a tub of vasaline earlier. He knew that he couldn’t just slam into Paul. It wasn’t like he would be lubricated inside like a bird. John didn’t want anything to tear, or to hurt his friend.

John gently spread apart Paul’s sweet legs. As Paul wasn’t deeply sleeping, he moved in accordance with John’s administrations. John smiled. Yes, this was a nice version of Paul. So compliant.

Paul’s body hair was so nice. John wanted to bury his face in it.

John brought his face down, towards the scent of the arousal. He took one of the balls in his mouth. John’s nose pressed against the stiff arousal straining above them. He ran his hand along Paul’s inner thigh. The hair was so soft.

John scooped some vaseline from the container, then began to spread it around Paul’s entrance. It slicked down the hair there. Paul shifted his hips.

“It’s alright, Paul.” John cooed.

John pushed his finger slightly, then drew back, then slightly harder. He wanted to be very gradual with it.

John began pushing his finger in, then another, trying to stretch him out. He scissored them inside him. John was careful not to push him too far too quickly. Paul was so hot and tight, John didn’t know how he’d even fit inside. 

John knew it was possible to fuck him there though. Back in Hamburg he’d gone in the back door of quite a few prostitutes. Still, Paul was much tighter than they were.

John massaged that sweet spot inside him that made Paul’s prick leak. Hopefully that would relax him.

He got three fingers inside it. Of course it felt incredible around them, hot and sucking him deeper, but Paul was still so, so  _ tight _ .

John waited for him to adjust before adding a fourth. He braced a hand against one of Paul’s shapely thighs, pushing it forward and apart.

The stretch was causing Paul to open and close his lips, squinting his eyes.

“It’s okay. We’ll be connected soon enough.” John told him.

John moved his body closer, pushing up Paul’s lovely legs. He pressed his clothed erection to the underside of Paul’s dick. He groaned at the heat and stiffness against his own through the coarse material.

John unzipped himself, and held them together in his hands. It was even better skin to skin, feeling Paul’s silky texture, hot and desperate as he was. John looked down at Paul’s face and bare chest, rutting against him harder.

John had to stop himself when he realized he was about to finish, all over Paul’s sweet body. No. When he finished, it needed to be deep inside of Paul.

John waited to calm down, then raised Paul’s sweet legs higher, and rubbed himself along Paul’s asscrack. Paul’s rear was so pert, so perky. It was better than a lot of girl’s were in fact, so firm. He’d been wanting to take that sweet ass for so long, the presence of Paul’s genitalia be damned. 

It was killing John to be so close, but he wanted to savor the moment. He could only take Paul for the first time once.

He was still worried about how tight Paul still was. Hopefully he’d be alright.

John spread that ass, pressing gently against the entrance. Paul began to fret when John began to slowly push in. He turned his head, his fingertips lightly feeling out John’s chest. Paul murmured to himself.

“Shh, it’s alright.” John went to hold one of Paul’s searching hands, stroking the palm with his thumb. That seemed to sooth him slightly, grounding him.

John kept pushing in. Paul was making gasping noises, obviously shocked by the stretch. Thanks to the vasaline it slid in without friction, though it was still hard to push it into such a tight entrance.

“Shh, it’s okay, Paul, s’alright.” John kept stroking his palm. Paul exhaled shakily.

John held still once he was buried completely inside. He savored the feeling. Paul was so much hotter and tighter than he had even imagined. Paul clenched around him, an alive passage. He pushed down on Paul’s navel and Paul groaned.

“Ya feel it, Paul? Feel nice?” John cooed. “M’ inside ya now. S’ a perfect fit.”

The smooth walls held him snugly, pulling him deeper, trying to accommodate the intrusion. John kept rubbing Paul’s navel, trying to release any tension. He looked down at Paul fondly, admiring his pretty yet concerned face, his smooth body, the large soft hand being held gently in his. Paul’s fingers had curled around him out of instinct, making John’s chest fill with warmth. He stroked the palm again. 

Paul shifted, perhaps trying to get away from the intrusion. John held him in place.

John kept watching him, smiling down at him. Paul squinted up at him, trying again to focus. He furrowed his eyebrows.

“Hello.”

Paul opened his lips, then closed them. He tried again.

“...John…?” He slurred, slightly strained, in that deep voice of his.

John’s heart leapt, he perked up and squeezed Paul’s hand.

Paul was still not completely there, but John supposed that through his haze, Paul had recognized him. John knew that Paul still didn’t know what was happening, or where he was, but it made him very happy that Paul had noticed that he was with him. John wondered what Paul thought was happening.

“Yes, Paul?” He said sweetly, stroking his hand.

“...mmnh…”

Paul hummed shifting again, closing his eyes. He opened them, and they wandered around the room, forgetting things as soon as he moved past them. Paul tried to speak again, but couldn’t find the words, or articulate them it seemed.

“How is it, Paul?”

Paul spaced out again, eyes glassy and unfocused.

With his blessing, John began to move, quite slowly for the sake of his friend. Paul would be sore the next morning no matter what, but John didn’t want him to jolt awake, a sharp pain in his ass. John wouldn’t ravish him, though he ought to after all those years of restraining himself.

His eyesight blurred, watching Paul under him. He held Paul’s hips tightly, perhaps leaving bruises. Bruises were easier to explain away than hickeys though. The soft skin felt so nice as John grabbed at it hungrily. He squeezed Paul’s fat, harshly touching him wherever he wanted. He could, after all. Of course, he’d stop if Paul asked him to, but Paul couldn’t speak.

Paul reacted accordingly with strained noises. John had dealt with him for so long, Paul could handle this much. Paul wasn’t even awake, really.

John reached down to hold Paul’s face between his palms. Paul’s cheeks were soft and warm, the hold squishing them slightly. Paul’s eyes seemed to find his again, recognizing John.

His eyebrows furrowed, attempting again to form a coherent thought. It seemed that Paul’s foggy mind wasn’t associating the sensation and the presence of John simultaneously. It seemed that Paul was attempting to speak, but it was likely difficult for him, as if he were speaking through cotton.

“...ah…” Paul managed in his deep voice, trying to formulate words.

“Yes, Paul?”

Paul’s eyes drifted out of focus. Luckily as John was holding his face, they couldn’t wander as much, and it was easier for Paul to refocus on his gaze.

“Wh-“ Paul began, then trailed off. He seemed confused again. He also had to compete with the sensations coursing through his body.

“What is it, Paul?” John said in that saccharine sweet voice.

Paul shut his eyes, attempting to shift around. Whether it was to get closer or farther from the sensations, John couldn’t tell.

“It feels like ‘heaven inside ya.” John told him wistfully. “I’d fuck yer sweet cunt for hours if I could.”

John closed his eyes, burying his head in Paul’s neck. Paul was so warm and soft, skin slightly damp from the exertion. John didn’t dare bite down, leaving marks, as much as he wanted to. With his glasses, John saw that Paul had sweet moles dotting his neck and collarbones. They were so endearing, Paul’s little beauty marks. He kissed the ones he could reach.

John breathed in Paul’s scent. It wasn’t a sexual one in this area, but rather a familiar one. It was the scent John had known for all these years, making him feel wistful for their younger days. They’d been friends for so long. The aroma of Paul’s lust was intoxicating and new, distinctly his, though this was the scent John knew.

Paul moved underneath him, mostly acting out of instinct. Paul’s stiff arousal pressed into John’s stomach whilst he fucked him, the skin contact stimulating it. Paul whined as John’s skin grazed against his prick, as well as from the stretch and the friction to that spot inside him.

John was getting close. He wanted to hear Paul say his name again. Recognize him.

“Paul,” He said.

Paul squinted up at him, recognizing his name. He was being pleasured as well, making it more difficult to focus. His gaze drifted.

“Paul, look at me.” John said. His voice was strained. He was nearly there.

Paul looked up at him, squinting harder, furrowing his brows. He was trying his hardest to focus, understand where he was, who was calling his name.

“Hello.” John grinned down at him, looking into Paul’s strained gaze.

Paul opened his mouth, then closed it. His head must be spinning. He tried again.

“...john…?” Paul slurred, only slightly legible.

That tipped him over the edge.

John released deep inside Paul, groaning his name from deep in his throat. He rocked into Paul, making sure he received every last drop. This load had been building inside him for years, waiting to be released in its rightful place, deep inside Paul. He called Paul’s name again, feeling him lightly touch his sides in curiosity. Paul’s hot body pressed tightly against his, the scent of it, Paul’s heartbeat, the feeling of his skin was all intoxicating. It was nearly perfect.

As John rode through it, he began to violently toss Paul off. Paul squeaked in surprise, hands raising up. His eyes darted around trying to figure out where it was coming from. Paul’s orgasm built up quickly. He squeezed his eyes shut and contorted his sweet face into a silent scream, only a sharp “ah” escaping him.

The muscles in Paul’s abdomen contorted as John rubbed an orgasm out of him, Paul making more high whines. The sensation overtook him, his hips shuddering as it coarsed through him. 

John released the last of his load inside him, watching Paul come down from his own release. Paul’s orgasm had landed onto his body again, seeping into his soft skin. Paul drew heavy breaths, lips stretched over his teeth, eyes unfocused again. Paul’s dick softened against his stomach.

John ran his hand over Paul’s navel, relaxing the s muscles, and soothing the strain. Paul grumbled as his heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal.

“Very nice, Paul.” John crooned. Paul seemed to have lost his slight coherence. He laid still, looking off into space.

John gathered a bit of Paul’s fluid from his chest, and brought it to his mouth. Delicious. It was a lovely taste, matching the scent of Paul’s arousal. It was a gift to him, his reward for making Paul feel so nice. He’d been the one who drew it out of him. It was the lust that built up as John fucked him.

John cleaned off Paul’s body with a warm washcloth, wiping away the dampness, leaving no trace of what happened. Looking him over, John was a bit worried that Paul would develop bruises where he had grabbed him. John shrugged it off. He could explain that away.

As much as John wanted to leave it inside, let his release seep into Paul, he knew he should try and get it out. Paul would surely notice if semen seeped out of him, lose his mind. 

John scooped much of it out, then cleaned the combined fluids that had settled in the creases of Paul’s thighs and ass. John cleaned the fluids that had seeped into Paul’s soft pubes, slicking down his soft body hair.

There was something oddly comforting in doing this, fussing over Paul’s relaxed body, soothing him. John had power over him, but also the responsibility to treat him kindly.

Again, to avoid a strange explanation the next morning, John dressed Paul back in his clothes, though leaving out his shoes, coat and tie. If Paul asked, John could just say he had drifted off, so he removed them.

It was a strangely affectionate thing to do, but it was ultimately no fault of his own that Paul fell asleep in his clothes. It was the least John could do to make him comfortable.

John shut Paul’s eyelids. Even normally, sometimes his eyes would be slightly open as he slept, the whites of his eyes showing. Must be hard to fully cover eyes that big, John figured, smiling.

  
  


—

  
  


The moment they woke up the next morning, they were packing, a car waiting for them, a plane they needed to catch. They were off to a different location.

They didn’t get a second to catch their breath until they were seated, the airplane moving along the runway. They settled in, ready for the long flight.

There was casual conversation amongst his group, they wandered around the cabin, speaking with other passengers. Eventually, Paul spoke to him.

“Say, John, what happened last night? It’s a bit fuzzy. We were talking weren’t we? I don’t remember much of it.”

John turned to him, Paul didn’t seem to be accusatory in tone, rather a conversational one. John mirrored it.

“Oh, that. Yeah, you were pretty sloshed last night. Had a drink too many and drifted off. Don’ worry about it.” John said. “Be careful, alright? Think you’ve been stretching yerself out too thin lately.”

“Oh, right.” Paul said, looking down at his drink, tapping his fingers against it. “Yeah, suppose I’ve been overworking myself a bit. Very hectic now, y’know?”

“Yeah.” 

John patted him on the shoulder amiably.

Paul later drifted off on the plane, lips parted, eyes slightly open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The clothing cutting thing is real. John would cut up their clothes whilst Paul was fucking his hookers. What a guy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two are a bit shorter, but chapter five will be a longer one :)

It was so satisfying. John could now have Paul whenever he wanted. He didn’t have to put their partnership or success in jeopardy either. John no longer had to push his lust and desire down, having to watch Paul go about his day, unwittingly seducing him with every movement. John could take what he wanted now, and Paul was none the wiser.

Paul spoke to John, writing their songs, performing, completely innocent to the fact that John had fucked him, that John had made him cum. John’s eyes had scanned his nude body, taking it in, touching it, feeling Paul’s soft firm skin against his.

John still slept with a fan here and there, he didn’t want to give up women, after all, but fucking Paul was a trip of his own. It was like having your cake, and eating it too.

It was a few weeks since he started, and John made sure not to take him too often, not arouse suspicion in Paul. He would surely notice if he began to lose his memory every night.

They were in a new hotel, having moved around a few times since the first time John had him. It was all so easy. He just had to find a reason to slip Paul away, take him back to their shared room. Sometimes Paul would even already be in his night clothes, John not needing to worry about redressing him in a suit.

John hadn’t taken him for a couple nights, but that morning, Paul pulled him aside to speak with him.

“I need to talk to ya.” Paul said. He seemed slightly perturbed.

“Hmm? What is it, Paul?”

Paul hesitated, wringing his hands, trying to find the words.

“...I’ve been feeling rather strange lately.”

Has he now.

“Strange how?” John said.

Paul paused for a moment, before continuing.

“It may sound like I’m overthinking things, but I feel like I’ve been having spotty memory lately.” Paul said, his eyes moved up to the side in thought. “I wake up some mornings, but I can’t remember fallin asleep. Like, something’s missing… I dunno…”

“You must just be tired.” John said. Paul’s face fell.

“It’s not that...John, I don’t know. I feel like I’m losing it.”

John put a sympathetic look on his face.

“Don’t ya thing that’s an overreaction?” John said. “See, it’s likely that ya wear yerself out during the day, and by the time ya go to bed, you’re exhausted. That’s all.”

“...maybe. Have you seen anything strange? Maybe I’ve been sleepwalkin”

John put his hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“C’mon, Paul. The touring is gettin’ to me too. There’s a lot of pressure on all of us, y’know.”

“Suppose you’re right.”

John patted his shoulder.

“Try to take it easy, alright? I worry ‘bout ya. You push yerself harder than any of us.”

“Yeah, I must be overworked. That must be it.” Paul said, rubbing his forehead. 

What a delicate hand. John remembered holding onto them, so smooth in his, even with the guitar calluses. Every bit of Paul was mouthwatering.

John grinned at him, patting him again. It was such a comraderly gesture.

When Paul walked off, the grin faded from John’s face. He frowned. So he was taking note of it huh? Maybe he’d been too bold with it. Though, Paul had no way to figure out the truth. It seemed that their conversation had placated him.

Even if Paul found out, he shouldn’t be mad at him. Even though Paul wasn’t even all there, John was still kind to him. John was always gentle. He cared for Paul, truly. John made sure he wouldn’t be hurt.

In a way, he was making love to Paul, taking care of his lovely body. John would make sure he finished, touch him gently, kiss his pretty face. Paul should be flattered to know how nice John was with him. If given the chance, John could show an awake Paul a night of immense pleasure. He knew what Paul liked by now. He knew how he could make that sweet body react and get excited.

John decided that he would take him tonight, just so he could say he did.

Paul could worry all he wanted, but John wouldn’t stop. He didn’t even do it every night. Paul was free to take birds up to his room whenever, just as John did. On the nights they weren’t together that is. John didn’t mind him fucking women, he would however, if another man took him.

He chuckled.

John knew those women couldn’t make Paul feel as good as he did. They’d just lie there, or even ride him, but John knew Paul didn’t care for any of them. It was just an extended form of mastubation to him, to all of them at this point.

There was a difference between that, and what John did to him. He truly cared for Paul, not the innocent heartthrob the fans were shown, but the real Paul, controlling, perverted, misogynistic, foul-mouthed, prideful, and aloof. He truly cared for Paul and his pleasure. Paul was his dear friend. These women would come and go, but John would always be there.

John would take Paul when he wanted, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. It was a win-win situation, honest. Paul got to live on blissfully unaware, enjoy their success, and John could do the same.

  
  
  


That night, John indulged in Paul’s sweet stiff arousal, listening to the delectable noises he made. Such a nice taste, such a nice feeling, that leathery object weighing down on his tongue. 

If you told John at age 14 that he would be enthusiastically sucking off a man in ten years time, he would’ve punched you where you stood. Sure, he was sucking a knob of, but it really didn’t feel that way, truly. It was only Paul after all. It was delicious, the swollen organ cutting off his oxygen as he took it deeper in his throat. So hard, but so soft. It all felt so nice-

_...I’ve been feeling rather strange lately. _

Hmm?

_ I wake up some mornings, but I can’t remember fallin’ asleep. Like, something’s missing _

Shut up. 

_ I feel like I’m losing it. _

John let the organ fall from his mouth with a pop. He looked up at Paul. Still unconscious, head on the pillow, looking dreamily upwards. His cheeks were a bit pink from the stimulation.

Looking at Paul’s face only kept reminding him of the conversation earlier. He was doing the thing, right now, that was causing him worry. Paul would wake up the next morning, distraught at his inability to remember falling asleep. The image was making him feel...guilty. Paul thought he was losing it, all because of him.

Fucking Paul. Even his lifeless face was emasculating him. John kept half-expecting Paul to snap out of it, glare at him, tell him off in that deep voice of his. It was either that, or worse, Paul would look at him with misery and betrayal, face pale. 

“Fucking Paul.” John said, grabbing him by the jaw, lifting him up. Paul didn’t respond, only groan at the rough touches.

“What do ya want from me?” John jerked Paul’s face in his grip. “This is the best I could think of. Ya won’t have me if yer awake. I don’ want to hurt ya! I didn’t wanna tie ya down! Have ya scream at me n’ cry!”

He jerked Paul’s face again, ranting and raving. Paul brought up his fingertips, trying to feel what was holding onto him so tightly.

“Why’re ya worrying?” John said harshly. “I leave ya safe in yer warm bed, don’t I? I clean ya. I dress ya. I try to make sure ya won’t hurt the next mornin’! Can’t say the same for the other men who eye ya up.”

His voice darkened. 

  
“I’ve seen them, Paul. They’re all nice n’ friendly, but once your pretty head’s turned, they look’t ya like yer somethin to eat. They all want ya.”

John’s grip on Paul’s jaw tightened. He was glaring daggers down at him.

“They won’t have ya.”

Paul tried to make a sound, his lips moving. He squinted at John, eyebrows furrowed. He couldn’t understand John’s words, he couldn’t make out words to respond. He looked distressed by John’s tight hold, his harsh tone. Another wave of guilt went through him, seeing Paul’s pained face. Paul managed to make a low “...uh…” sound.

John let him go as if his skin burnt. Paul’s head fell back onto the pillow.

“Sorry.” John muttered, wracked with guilt. He wrung the hand that he used to grab him. He didn’t mean to lash out.

Paul’s face was so sweet, looking up at him gently, though unseeingly. Poor thing. Poor Paul. John was supposed to be kind to him. He couldn’t fight back.

“I’m sorry, Paul.” He said quietly.

John looked away from him, across the hotel room, then back to Paul.

Paul wasn’t even looking at him. Just staring dreamily ahead, resting on the pillow.

He rubbed Paul’s thigh comfortingly. Paul turned his head slightly, trying to find the source.

“It’s alright, Paul. I won’t let yer pretty face ruin the night.”

John turned Paul’s body over, Paul bracing his arms on the mattress. John had always wanted to take him from behind.

John climbed onto Paul’s naked body, feeling up the delicate skin of his back. It curved so nicely, his shoulder blades so gentle. Paul’s dark brown hair was so lovely, he wore their hairstyle well. It highlighted his teardrop face and arched eyebrows. It was quite soft to the touch as well. John massaged his sides, grabbing at the fat. The dip in his back was so enticing, the way it curved into his ass.

A hunger grew inside John, a wide grin appearing on his face as he grabbed at it. It was so firm and supple. John ran his hand along the curve of it, squeezing. He wanted to bring his hand down on it, watch the way the skin reacted, but he knew he shouldn’t. There would be a noise, as well as a mark for Paul to find. 

What a lovely rear, John thought. He definitely could compete with the loveliest girls John had taken. Christ, John had been with quite a few women since taking Paul for the first time, and none of them could compare.

John lifted Paul to his knees, raising that ass higher. He spread it, bringing his face closer. John tried not to think about where he was putting his mouth, but with an ass like that, he couldn’t resist. John pushed his tongue inside, feeling the walls clench around it. It was so warm and tight, despite how many times John had fucked him. Paul was the perfect fit, housing his member like no woman had before. If Paul was awake, he’d likely be disgusted with what John was doing, but sedated, Paul moaned and grumbled, pushing back against John’s face. Paul enjoyed it. Paul enjoyed everything that John gave him.

John stretched it out, wetting that sweet entrance. He knew spit alone wasn’t enough, so he always made sure to slick himself up with any lubricant he could get his hands on.

John spread it again, then pushed in, groaning. He bore his weight down on Paul, relishing the feeling of the soft skin against his. He felt at home when he was snugly inside of Paul. John knew he was the first one to enter him, and if he had his way, he would be the only one. Paul could take as many birds as he wanted, but John would be the only man who would get to fuck him.

John wrapped his arms around Paul’s body, pulling him even closer. Paul drew in his elbows, touching where John held onto him. John felt up his front, his chest. He buried his nose in Paul’s neck, breathing him in, putting his lips to Paul’s seashell ear. He took the earlobe in his mouth, sucking on the ridge.

He suddenly realized this was the perfect position to toss Paul off. He curled his hand around Paul’s body, his wrist brushing against the fluffy pubic hair, wrapping his hand around Paul’s erect member.

Paul cried out at the pleasure, from his prick as well as his ass. From this position, John was better able to hit that spot with every thrust. There were a lot of benefits to this position, but John wouldn’t switch to it exclusively. Being able to see Paul’s pretty face as he fucked him overshadowed everything else.

Paul’s chin rested on the pillow, whining and vocalizing as John tossed him off. His eyes were open though, unseeing, eyebrows drawn as he moaned.

John pulled Paul’s head back by the hair, bringing his lips to Paul’s ear. Paul whined.

“Worried, eh?” John said flippantly, before switching to a more salacious tone. “Don’t be. I take good care of ya, don’t I?”

Paul groaned. He made such sweet noises.

“Yes, I do. I do, Paul.” John said deeply, nuzzling into his hair. “I treat ya twice as good as the birds I take up ‘here, y’know. Yes I do. I make ya feel nice.”

John gave Paul’s erection long firm strokes, fucking him at a slower, more sensual pace. John breathed into Paul’s hair, taking in his scent. Paul made sounds in accordance to the stimulation, breathing shakily.

“Dear friend,” John sighed, adoration clear in his voice.

  
  
  
  
  
  


-

  
  
  


It was the next evening.

Paul sat in the dark room, horrified face illuminated by the light of the projector as he watched the film from the camera he put out the night before.

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Paul had been worried... missing gaps of his memory...wondering if he was going mad. He’d set up a film camera in his room the previous morning in the hopes he would see what was going on.

He had to hold back retching twice. There wasn’t sound, but that only caused his mind to fill in the gaps. Paul clutched his head, pulling at his soft hair. His heart felt like it would beat out of his chest. It was hard to take air into his lungs.

Why? Why?

His close friend…

He couldn’t believe it was real. He was frozen in place, eyes glued to the footage. It couldn’t be real. Even in the low definition, soundless film, it was unmistakable. He couldn’t believe this is what was happening...all this time…

Why would he do this?

Paul wanted to claw his skin off. Was this the first time John had done this?

Come to think of it, Paul had been feeling sore in the morning, finding light bruises on his skin.

No. No. No.

It had been in front of his eyes this whole time. Oh god.

John had been violating him for weeks, or longer than that? He’d been doing things to Paul, then looking him in the eye the next morning as if nothing had happened. 

John had casually touched him, platonic touches, all the while knowing where his hands had been. Paul had looked him in the eye and spoke back to him, blissfully unaware of what John was doing. All this time John knew, then woke up the next morning and carried on as normal.

Paul wanted to retch again. 

Oh god.

John looked so glad as he did it too, a grin on his face. There was no sound, though it looked like John was speaking softly to him, putting his lips to Paul’s ear. As if John thought he was making love to him. He was deluded, Paul hadn’t fucking agreed to this! That made it all the more screwed up.

How could John carry on, speaking to an unconscious man as if he could hear him. Paul wasn’t fucking there, and yet he was speaking to him as if he were. It was madness. If anything, Paul would prefer it if John was just straight up fucking him for his pleasure, instead of going through with this silly charade.

The tape ended, projecting a white square. Paul beat his fists on his head, tugging at his hair.

Paul took the reel from the projector, tearing apart the film. He kept ripping it into smaller pieces until it was a bunch of unreadable little strips.

Paul looked down at the mess he made, trying to keep himself from doing anything rash. He buried his hands in his hair again. Christ. Fucking Christ.

He gathered up the strips, tossing it out the hotel window. Luckily he was alone in the suite, as his friends went out. Paul had stayed in, faking an illness in order to watch the reel. Thank god he didn’t tell them the truth.

Christ. If John was doing this, was it all of them? Were they all having a turn with him? Paul didn’t know anymore. If he couldn’t trust John, who could he trust?

Why him? Why did John go through all the trouble just to fuck him? If he wanted sex, he could get a girl from outside, bring her up to their suite. Hell, he’d slept with women with Paul still in the room, and Paul did the same. In their Hamburg days it was even more so common, as they all shared a tiny room. If John wanted to have a go fucking a man, he could find a hooker or something.

The tape was from the previous night. John had fucked him last night. Paul didn’t even remember bathing that night. 

Christ. Of course he didn’t remember. He was being drugged so he’d be compliant while John  _ fucked _ him. Oh Christ.

Paul undressed frantically, getting into the hotel shower. He turned the temperature dial much too hot, hotter than he usually did. Paul’s skin went slightly pink, but he didn’t take any mind. He scrubbed at himself. Whenever an image from the reel flashed across his head, reminding Paul the places John had touched him, he focused on that area. The bathroom filled with steam, and it was getting difficult to breathe.

Paul looked down and heaved when he thought about John’s mouth on his member. Christ. John had sucked him off. His instinct was to hold and scrub at it, but that only stimulated him, the cloth irritating the skin. Paul just tried to block it from his memory. He didn’t want to cry, but he allowed himself a single sob, the hot water running over his head.

Paul was in the shower until he couldn’t stand the water anymore. He stayed in the bathroom, door locked, huddled in the bathrobe. He was afraid to go out, sleep in his room. He eventually dozed off, there on the bathroom floor, body worn out from the stress.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worry about Paul coming off too submissive since he’s portrayed as such so often. I think he can throw down, and isn’t just some feminine little thing that begs John to fuck him. He’s prideful and has masculine qualities as well.
> 
> This chapter...whoop.

John and the others returned to their suite late that night. He didn’t find Paul asleep in their room. John shrugged. He must’ve gotten over his stomach ache and went out after all.

The next morning Paul was a bit odd, a bit standoffish. Perhaps tired from the late night, or maybe not as over the sickness as he thought.

“Morning.” John greeted him pleasantly. “Didn’t see ya ‘round last night. Ya feeling better?”

Paul’s back was turned, and he flinched when John spoke to him.

“Paul?”

Paul turned his head to him, a pale expression. He nodded, lips tight. Poor thing. Must still be sick.

They had a show that night. Brian asked Paul if he felt well enough to go on. Paul nodded, said he was fine to perform.

They probably could find a stand in bassist last minute, but they wouldn’t be able to do Paul’s songs. Additionally, more concerning, was the fan’s response to being denied their chance to see Paul. They could get violent, jeer at them and throw things at the poor stand-in.

Paul was still not quite right when they got onstage. He stared out at the crowd warily, an apprehensive expression.

When he introduced their first song, his voice wasn’t as cheerful as usual, despite trying to conceal it.

Luckily, as the show went on, Paul’s enthusiasm increased. It seems that he had shaken the illness, getting hyped up by the crowd. He really did love performing, it seemed that that’s where he belonged.

Paul performed “Long Tall Sally” with as much energy as he always did, shrieking as well as little Richard. He shook his head and tapped his foot, moving along with the rhythm.

They went on to perform their usual set, taking turns introducing the songs. John performed the ones where he sang lead, like Chuck Berry’s “Rock and Roll Music”. As always, George had lead on “Roll Over Beethoven”. Paul sang his “Till There Was You” and “All My Loving.

During Paul’s set, John’s eyes met his. He grinned at Paul.

Quite oddly, Paul’s face fell once laying eyes on him, faltering for a moment, and messing up his chords. Strange. John would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt his feelings. Perhaps his vision was failing him. Things were fuzzy after a certain point. Maybe Paul was still sick, the facade dropping when he met John’s encouraging expression.

It couldn’t be that Paul had found out. It was impossible for him to.

They ended the set with their beloved “She Loves You”, causing a final uproar in the crowd.

When they came off stage, they had to rush out to their waiting car. It took them back to their hotel. The next morning they’d be off again, needing to pack and catch a plane, bound for another city.

Paul was on edge again once they returned, alone in the suite with his group. He eyed them cautiously. Paul was terrified at the prospect of sharing the room with John tonight, though he was put off telling him. How would Paul even bring it up? Just mentioning it would arouse suspicion.

He still wasn’t sure whether the others were in on it, aiding in drugging him, taking turns with him. John had been sedating him in plain view of the others, after all.

They were changing out of the suits they were wearing during the performance, but Paul made no move to undress. They’d never had hang ups about changing clothes around each other before, but now Paul was afraid to. It wasn’t a big deal before, as they were close, and it wasn’t like they were eyeing up each other. Now, Paul wasn’t so sure. Maybe they _had_ been looking at him with hunger this entire time, all the while Paul not taking note of it.

Why? Sure, he had some more feminine features, but he had a man’s body! He had body hair where women didn’t, and broad shoulders. Paul had a slight dip in his waist, but was nowhere as slender as a woman.

George spoke, cutting through his musings. 

“Not goin’ out again, Paul?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Dunno.” Mumbled Paul.

“Yer still under the weather?” George said.

Paul nodded, but didn’t want to meet his eyes. Why was George getting on his case all of a sudden?

Was it his turn for the night…? 

Paul shuddered.

George… he’d known him even longer than John. His little brother…

They were all like brothers to him. Why…?

“That’s too bad.” John said in his gravelly voice. Paul was the most on guard with him, after all, John was the only one he’d seen fuck him.

“Maybe I’ll stay in. Keep an eye on ya.” 

John’s grin was friendly enough, but Paul saw things in it he hadn’t before, that made his heart sink. In hindsight it did seem that John eyed him up, looking at him and his body in a way Paul hadn’t thought twice about. He had no reason to look deeper into it.

“No. I’ll be alright.” Paul said, much too snappily.

The sickness seemed to be making Paul irritable. John wouldn’t fuck him while under the weather, poor thing. Maybe it made him a sentimentalist, but John was considering staying in to keep him company. 

Suppose there was nothing wrong with caring for Paul, especially with their more intimate relationship, but John didn’t want to get too weird with it. Paul was a grown man. He didn’t need John to baby him all of a sudden.

He liked their dynamic as is, equal footing and respect, except for the times John took him to bed. During those times, he had an obligation to tend to Paul, as he couldn’t himself.

“S’alright.” John said amiably. “We can talk about the new lp.”

A rush of dread ran through Paul. He remembered...a lot of the nights where his memory failed him...John had asked him to stay back...with those exact words. He told Paul to stay back…”to talk about the new album”. They’d never ended up having that conversation. Oh god.

Paul shook his head frantically. His unease was quite visible.

“S’fine. You guys go out. M’ gonna turn in.”

Paul walked to his room, not turning his back to them as he went.

His friends...he was closer to them than anyone else. They were already close in the early days, bathing in urinals, taking drugs to stay awake. The success had only made them tighter. Elvis had faced this alone, but they had each other.

Paul would wait for them to leave, then maybe… maybe he could slip out and get a room elsewhere for the night. Maybe… but they’d wonder where he was. Paul didn’t have much money on him either. He didn’t want to be asleep with John there, even if he wasn’t drugged. 

He sat in his room, thoughts running through his head. It was a lot to process. His whole worldview had been turned upside down just the night before.

Maybe Paul had imagined it. Nobody had been acting any different today. Wasn’t it possible that the film wasn’t real? Maybe Paul was only cracking under the pressure, that’s why his memory was spotty. His friends wouldn’t do something like this. They loved him, and he loved them. John was right when he said Paul was overworking himself.

John…

That tape wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Those images were burnt into his head. He couldn’t look at John without dread filling inside him. He had betrayed Paul in a way Paul couldn’t even comprehend.

He listened to the noises from outside the door. His friends were getting ready to leave. When it was silent outside, Paul let his body relax. 

All of it bore down on him. The betrayal, the violation. He buried his face in his hands. Paul didn’t want to cry, so he didn’t, only shivering and closing his eyes tight. Why?

Maybe it was his pretty face to blame, or maybe his mannerisms. It wasn’t his fault! He didn’t choose to be born looking like this. He used to be worried that his face was too girly, but all the fame and adoration quelled that insecurity. The girls loved it, so who was he to complain? Sure, he wasn’t taken as seriously at times, but he could have any girl he wanted. Two if he asked nicely.

Christ. He wasn’t stupid. He knew his looks had an affect on men as well. They never acted on it though. Paul simply used it to get his way at times. He always thought his friends were the exception. They didn’t see him in that way.

Paul raised his legs onto the bed, huddling to himself. Christ.

He didn’t want to sleep, but his body was worn out from the show and the stress. He’d gotten into the swing of the performance, enjoying himself. He nearly forgot the horrible development from last night.

That was until his eyes met John’s. John grinned at him. It made his heart sink as reality hit him. Paul had messed up his part of the song.

Paul’s heart just about shot out when the doorknob began to turn.

“Paul?”

Paul’s breaths were ragged, he clutched his chest.

“Paul?” John said. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya. Ya doing good?”

  
  


He popped his head in the room. Taking note of Paul’s mortified expression, he shot him a worried look.

“What’s up?”

Paul shook his head. He got off the bed, putting distance between them.

“Paul?”

John was acting as if Paul were the one acting strange. He stepped into the room, giving him a confused look. He looked like he was genuinely concerned. 

Maybe Paul really had imagined the video. Maybe none of it was real. John was acting the same as he always did, worrying about Paul’s strange demeanor, confused.

But Paul knew what he saw.

After a minute, he spoke.

“John...what have you been doing to me?” He said in a hoarse voice

“Whatever do you mean. Paul?” 

John said it in his flippant manner, smiling . He was trying to lighten the mood. His smile faded, switching back to concern when Paul didn’t reciprocate.

“I was worried…” Paul said slowly. “I put up a video camera last night.”

That did it. John’s face darkened. He looked at Paul irritated.

“...why, John?” Paul said in a small voice.

Paul looked hurt and betrayed. John had broken his trust on a deep level. 

John threw his hands up, a sympathetic expression. He drew his eyebrows and smiled slightly.

“Paul, why would you put up a camera?” John said. “You would’ve been fine if you’d never found out. Now you’ve gone and made unnecessary grief for yerself.”

John spoke as if he were scolding a child.

Paul looked at him, dumbfounded. He was making it out that Paul was the one in the wrong?

“Christ. John, why?” Paul said “I don’t understand. You were my friend weren’t you? You cared for me once? I would’ve never thought…”

John cut him off.

“I am! I am your friend. That’s why I did it that way. You wouldn’t have known.”

Paul laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Really? That’s what a friend does? Drugs you so that he can f-“

John jabbed a finger at him.

“Now listen, it could’ve been much worse for ya.” He said darkly.

“Oh, really?” Paul barked, amused.

John shook off his aggression, shaking his head with a smile.

“Come now. I’m sorry I did it like that.” John said, then switched to a more seductive tone. “But understand, if ya gave it a change when yer awake, you’d love’t. I know what ya like.”

John came closer to him, and Paul walked backwards, touching the wall.

“C’mon” John cooed

Paul pressed himself closer to the wall. John put his hand on Paul’s thigh, dragging it up until...

A blow, right to John’s face.

Christ. Paul could throw a punch.

John had forgotten. He’d gotten this new image of Paul in his head. Docile, compliant, lovelier than any woman he’d seen. Paul had the sort of face that made you want to protect him, but there was nothing to protect him from. Paul wasn’t his dainty little lover, was he? Paul was large, and strong. Fully capable of taking John in a fight. He hadn’t had a reason to, until now.

Paul shoved John back, causing him to stumble away, holding his cheek.

Paul looked more hurt than angry as he gave another blow to John’s face, making his head ring. John put his arms up in defense.

“How could you do this to me? Why? Why, John?” He shouted miserably as he brought down his fists.

John grabbed Paul’s forearms, trying to hold them still as Paul struggled.

“I had to do it!” John yelled. “You would’ve been fine if ya didn’t fuckin dig around. You’ve brought this on yerself!”

“Didn’t you care for me? I was your friend wasn’t I? We were brothers, John!”

Paul kneed him in the gut, causing John to let go. Paul stumbled backwards, again trying to put distance between them.

John got upset, frustrated. He knew he had violated Paul, but he had no other choice. He tried to do it as nicely as possible.

It would’ve been much worse for Paul if John let his desire fester. It would’ve gone on just fine if Paul didn’t have to go and put up a fucking _camera_! The fucking nerve. Didn’t he realize he was only screwing himself over?

They could’ve continued like this for years, Paul blissful and unaware, John satiated, both of them enjoying the success and wealth that their partnership brought.

“Of course I cared for ya! I was good to you as I did it to. I made ya feel nice. I was gentle. I could’ve not been, y’know.”

John’s voice got low and threatening, jabbing a finger at his friend.

“I could’ve damn well ravished your sweet body, and there wouldn’t have been a _thing_ ya could do about it. I ought to have ravished ya after all you’ve put me through. I was fucking good to ya.”

Paul laughed again, though joylessly.

“Good to me? Drugging me? Drugging me so you could have yer way with me? Oh. Well. I’m _fuckin_ sorry, then! At least you were _nice_ to be as ya did it! Ha!”

Paul cut himself off, seeing red. He dropped the humorous tone, completely furious. He lunged at John, wrapping his hands around his throat

“You fucker! Motherfucker! You were being _nice_ ?!” Paul’s voice was high and screechy. “Don’ act for one goddamn second ya thought I’d be _fine_ with it! Why do ya think you was _drugging_ me? I fuckin thought I was going _mad_!”

Paul’s grip was vicelike around him, his large hands tightening around his neck. John struggled to breath, beating at Paul’s arms. He was able to throw Paul off him, though not without a struggle.

They ended up on either side of the room, sweaty, heaving and glaring at each other. Paul’s fists clenched and unclenched, shoulders raised. His rabbit teeth were gritted.

They glared at each other for a moment more, breathing heavily, before John spoke.

“Well what are ya gonna do about it now?” John taunted, glowering at him. “Leave the group? Break it up? You’re gonna give this all up because of somethin ya don’t even remember? That didn’t even hurt ya?”

Paul’s face contorted in rage. He didn’t even know what he was going to do. He thought he’d made it. He’d reached the top, and he wouldn’t need to worry anymore.

“Are ya gonna tell the authorities, hmm?” John continued, mocking him. “You think they’d believe ya? That yer friend drugged ya so he could fuck you? They’d think you was making it up for attention, or ya wanted it.”

John laughed at him cruelly as Paul seethed.

“Have ya seen yerself? Looked in the mirror lately, Paul? Ya think they’d take ya seriously?” John laughed. “Maybe those officers would want a turn on ya as well. Ha!”

Paul lunged at him again, a fist colliding with his face.

John grabbed Paul’s wrist, but instinctively went for the right one. Paul brought his left fist back, swinging it into John’s face, grabbing his shirt. Paul didn’t look hurt anymore, he was enraged. Paul took another hit, then another. They were sharp and painful. John’s nose was bleeding.

“Fuck!” John hollered. His outburst made Paul hesitate a split second. He took this opportunity to knee Paul in the gut, causing him to double over.

“Christ-“

John yanked Paul back up by the bangs, causing him to wince, contort his pretty face in pain.

It was a similar expression to what Paul wore when he got fucked, though strained from pleasure rather than pain. John grinned at it. 

He gave another blow to Paul’s gut. He didn’t want to leave any marks on Paul’s lovely face. Paul clawed at the hand pulling him up by the hair.

“You..”

A blow to Paul’s gut.

“Don’t…”

Another.

“Get ta…”

Another.

“Fuckin…”

Another.

“Hit me.”

John’s face still stung where Paul had hit him, blood leaking brim his nose. It would bruise later.

John moved his other hand to Paul’s neck, tightening and lifting from there instead. John hit him again in the stomach for good measure, causing Paul to groan in pain. Paul was slightly tearing up from the exertion, clawing at the hand around his neck, pretty mouth gasping for breath.

Seeing Paul like this caused John’s heart to swell. Paul looked so vulnerable like this. Yes. He liked it when Paul was at his mercy.

“Don’t-“ Paul said hoarsely through his gritted teeth. His eyes were shut tight in pain, crinkles appearing.

“I’ll be gentle if you behave.” John said sweetly, yet firmly

Paul’s eyes shot open.

“No!” Paul shouted. He kneed John in the ribs, causing him to let go.

“Christ!” John hollered. He clutched himself

Paul backed away putting his hands up in defense.

John didn’t move to land any more blows, rather grin eerily at him, eyeing his frightened expression and defensive position. The blood dried on John’s face, bruises forming.

“Come on, Paul.” John said sweetly, but to Paul his tone seemed taunting. His grin seemed malicious, hungry. “Just give it a chance. Ya know I would’ve preferred fuckin ya without the drugs...but ya can see why I didn’t try tha.”

John gestured to his bloodied face. He continued.

“I know what ya like. I’d give ya a good time if you’d let me.”

Paul’s face was pale, just staring at John in disbelief.

John grinned lavishly, pointing a finger at Paul’s chest.

“I know ya feel good from yer tits.”

Paul rushed to cover his chest, face white, as if he were a bird caught with her shirt off.

John laughed, gesturing all over Paul’s body.

“Yes, I know everything ya like. I put my ‘hands on them and ya _moan_ and _whine_.”

“No…”

“You did though. Ya might not believe me, but ya loved it when I fucked ya too.”

Paul shook his head.

“Ya did!” John said joyfully. “Ya made your sweet noises, yer sweet little prick leaked all over yer cute stomach.”

Paul dry heaved, looking away from him. He was gripping his stomach. Hopefully John hadn’t hit him too hard.

“Ya looked at me as I did it, Paul.” John mused. “Ya know what you did?”

Paul didn’t look at him. His hand was tangled in his dark hair, pulling it.

“Ya know what you did, Paul?”

Paul just trembled, keeping his head turned away from John.

“Ya know what ya did?”

Paul didn’t look at him. He shook his head frantically trying to get John to stop asking.

“Ya looked me in the eyes, Paul.” John said, grinning, wild eyed. He looked mad. “Ya looked right at me. Ya recognized me, Paul.”

John’s eeire grin widened, stretching wider.

“Ya said my name.”

Paul had froze, only shaking.

“You called me by my name, Paul.” He droned on, amorously. “Ya looked up at my face, and ya said ‘ _...John…?’_ ”

Paul let out a strangled whine, stifling a cry.

Paul stood there a moment, shaking. He could feel John’s eyes boring into him. Without turning to him, Paul walked to his bed, sitting down on the edge.

He had his back to John. Paul wrapped his arms around his chest, shuddering.

Paul was so tired. He wanted it to be over. His body ached where John had punched him, and his fists hurt. He wanted this to have never happened. He wanted his friend back.

Maybe it would’ve been better if he hadn’t put out a camera, like John said. Then again, Paul was already going mad from the memory gaps and the strange marks that appeared on his body. Why did he have to do this to him?

John walked over to him, sitting on the bed. 

Paul felt the matress dip. John began rubbing his back.

_Don’ttouchme Dont’ttouchme Don’ttouchme_

“Come now, Paul,” John said in his sickly sweet voice. “Don’t be so glum. M’sorry I hit ya. You made me.”

John kept stroking his back.

“Paul.” John continued in that awful tone, as if he were comforting an upset lover. “You don’t need to be down. I’ll be good to ya, see?”

John’s hand crept lower, down Paul’s back. He massaged the muscles down there.

“I made ya feel so nice, Paul.” John said. His voice depended from a gentle tone, to something more sexual. “I made ya cum. Ya would enjoy it too, if you didn’t have yer silly hang ups. When yer dreamin, trapped away in yer little head, ya let me make you feel so good.”

John ran his finger up Paul’s clothed spine.

“You’d like it if ya gave it a chance, Paul. Promise.” John cooed. He was enjoying this more demure version of Paul. Sure, Paul wasn’t in the best state of mind, but still.

John’s voice got even quieter.

“I wouldn’t have to drug ya anymore. You’d be able to enjoy it proper-like. I’ll make ya feel nice anytime ya want.

Paul sobbed.

“Oh, come now, Paul.” John said. He brought his lips to Paul’s seashell ear, making his skin crawl. “We’re a perfect pair. Lennon-McCartney, int it? Yer the sweet one, and I’m the stern one.”

John’s hand curled around Paul’s hip, running it over his ass. Paul was still shaking.

“What do ya say, Paul?” He said. “Lemme show ya how nice I can make you feel. I know yer body, _inside_ and _out_.”

He chuckled at his wordplay. Paul squeezed his eyes shut. John’s voice softened again.

“I won’t even fuck ya tonight. It’ll be all about you. Let me prove it to ya.”

Paul was still a moment.

What could he do? He didn’t want any more gaps in his memory. He couldn’t leave the group, give all this up. What would become of him? 

He couldn’t tell anybody. He didn’t know how the other two would react either. Maybe they wanted him as well, and would want to get in on it. Even if they sympathized, what could they do? They’d only look at him with pity, lose respect for him. He wanted them at least to not see him as a bird

The only choice was to give in. All he had to do was lie there and let John touch him. All he could do was trust that John truly didn’t want to hurt him.

Paul slowly turned his body, lowering his back to the mattress, his legs still hanging off the end. His eyes were shut, his eyebrows drawn, lips pursed.

John’s eyes widened, his smile grew. Adoration built in his chest. Paul had accepted him. He couldn’t believe it.

“Yes, Paul.” He breathed, mystified. “Good, Paul.”

John ran a hand across Paul’s chest. Paul was cognizant, clearly conscious of the touches.

“That’s good, Paul.” He said. “Lovely Paul.”

“Paul,” he cooed. Paul was here. Fully here. He wasn’t speaking to a shell. This was his friend.

“I’ll be so good to ya, Paul. I’ll be so nice with ya.”

John undid the shirt buttons, enjoying Paul’s breaths. They weren’t even as if he were sleeping. They synced to what was happening.

Paul’s lovely pale skin was revealed.

“I’m gonna touch yer chest, now.”

Paul’s face contorted, squeezing his eyes shut.

John brought his fingers down, and began to touch those sweet pink puffies. Paul whimpered.

“Don’t be shy with your noises. I wanna hear them.” John said. “You’ve got nothin to be embarrassed ’bout. I’ve seen it all before, k’know. Bring down yer barriers.”

Paul winced. He knew John was right. He didn’t even have a choice about it, but John had seen it all. His sleeping body had betrayed him, enjoying the sexual attention. According to John anyway. Paul knew he had cum from it though. He saw himself on the reel, his sleeping face contorted in pleasure as John rubbed it out of him. He could only imagine the sounds he was making.

“Let yerself enjoy it, Paul. You’d feel so much better if ya let go. It’s only me. Let me hear ya.”

John pinched and twisted them, rubbing them gently. 

Paul breathed heavily from the stimulation. He was sensitive there, much to his chagrin. He never touched them, or asked a girl to. It was such a humiliating thing. Paul thought nobody would ever know. His chest was flat, and so were his puffies, not like a woman’s. 

“There it is,” John cooed. He rubbed circles into them as they hardened.

Paul made a sweet deep whine.

“My dear friend...” John said softly.

Paul was stiff under his trousers, straining against the material. His chest was able to make him hard. Even make him leak.

“Did you know that you felt nice here?” John asked.

“No…” Paul groaned miserably. “S’embarrasing. I never touch’d there.”

“I see.” John kissed his chest. It was incomparable. Paul was speaking back to him, letting himself be touched. John’s face still stung from where Paul had hit him, but it was all water under the bridge. Paul had given him the greatest gift.

“Yer so pretty. Lovely, lovely Paulie.” John said. He ran his finger over Paul’s chest. “I’ve told ya when you was asleep, but ya couldn’t hear. Better than any broad, you are.”

“Don’t say tha’” Paul said weakly.

John looked up at him surprised. Paul continued, voice quiet.

“Don’ treat me like a bird. Please. At least.”

John nodded.

“I won’t. Paul”

John tugged at the rim of Paul’s trousers. Paul hissed.

“Alright?”

Paul nodded woefully, lips stretched in a grimace.

“Shh, it’ll be nice Paul. Promise.”

John undid the fly, reaching inside. He began to slowly stroke Paul’s length. Paul whimpered in his deep voice. John shushed him, patting his navel.

Sure enough, John knew exactly how Paul liked it. He’d memorized Paul’s reactions, his sensitive areas

He knew Paul loved loving his frenulum rubbed. He liked being stroked off in a snug but rhythmic pace, a hand sliding down his shaft, squeezing, then sliding up with that same pressure, repeat.

Paul loved having his balls played with as his dick was stimulated. He loved it when John rubbed his perineum. 

The spine of his dick, the place where it curved upward stiffly, was sensitive as well, filling with blood. He loved it when John massaged his thumb into it.

It was especially nice now that Paul was awake. He was so much more cognizant now. Truly feeling it.

Paul’s hand shot to John’s right forearm, looking up at him with a pained look as he stimulated him.

“S’alright. Good, int it?” John said, smiling at him. Paul let out a strained exhale, shutting his eyes. He retreated his hand.

Paul hissed as the touches continued. John didn’t know if Paul was letting himself enjoy it, but it was obviously affecting him. John knew he was good at pleasing him. He knew how to read Paul perfectly, take note of his reactions, as if Paul were doing it to himself.

“There ya are” John said “I’ve got ya.”

Paul made another strained groan. He unintentionally shifted his hips, similarly to how he did when he was asleep.

“Let it go.”

Whilst stroking him off, John brought a couple fingers to his mouth, setting them. He reached lower into Paul’s trousers, finding his entrance and tracing the rim. Paul’s eyes shot open. He sat up slightly.

“John...wait.” Paul put his hand on John’s wrist, lightly pushing it. John stroked him some more and Paul shuddered.

“Shh, it’s alright.” John cooed “”et go. You like this.”

Paul looked ashamed. He leaned back down.

Paul made a nauseous “ah” sound as it went in.

John pushed them further, moving them around. Paul looked sick.

“Let go.”

John pressed into the spot inside him. Paul made a deep hum of pleasure through his discomfort

“Thatssit” John said under his breath.

Paul looked up at him hazily, not from being drugged, but rather from the sensation. Paul was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling along with the strokes and presses.

Paul’s slightly spread thighs twitched. He didn’t have as much movement as he was still wearing his trousers. John had tried to leave Paul relatively clothed for his comfort.

“Dear friend…” John said, so softly that Paul likely couldn’t even hear him.

Another twist of Paul’s knob, more pressure into that spot. Paul’s teary eyes blinked, his lips stretched over his teeth. John began to move quicker, applying more pressure.

“C’mon, Macca”. The sound barely left his lips.

Paul’s face contorted further, opening his mouth wide in a silent scream.

“Macca…”

P’s voice was deep and so so sweet. He moaned from deep in his chest, his mouth wide and eyes unfocused. His release began to spurt into his chest, getting onto his unbuttoned shirt. Paul’s hips twisted.

John rode him through it, pressing into that spot, squeezing his pulsing member. John kissed Paul’s sternum.

Paul’s leg’s shuddered as he came, raising his hips and arching his back. His sounds were sweet, though mournful at submitting to the sensations. 

He thrust instinctively into John’s hand. John watched that sweet little pink head disappear and reappear in his fist, the fluids escaping it, the flesh of it having some give around his hold. Paul’s member sure was a delicious little thing.

John beamed down at him as the last of Paul’s orgasm was released. Paul breathed heavily, looking down at John with lidded eyes. He always looked slightly aloof due to his angled eyebrows.

John leaned down and pressed a kiss to Paul’s soft cheek. Paul braced his hands on John’s chest, pushing him away, though only slightly.

John smiled down at his face, close enough that their noses were touching. 

John ran his hand over Paul’s hip, up his side. 

Paul’s eyes were conscious, looking at him clearly, though sadly. He wasn’t looking through him. There was no haze of drugs. His friend was truly here with him.

Paul shut his eyes, so he pulled back.

He massaged Paul’s stomach, exposed as his fly was undone. It was so soft and warm to the touch. Paul winced when he put on pressure.

“I didn’t hurt ya too bad, did I?”

With Paul’s eyes closed and relaxed breathing, it reminded John of what he was like sedated. John didn’t want to go back to that after this.

“Paul?”

Paul’s eyes opened lightly, the dark eyelashes moving.

John smiled. Paul was here.

“I didn’t want to hurt ya, Paul.” He whispered. “Ya made me do it.”

John kept stroking it, relieving the soreness. He’d forgiven Paul for laying hands on him.

“Be good, an’ I’ll never hit ya again.”

John reached his hand to Paul’s head, stroking the hair, soothing where he had pulled it. John smiled down at him adoringly, his nose fully throbbing in pain.

“My dear friend.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind I don’t intend for this to be a romance. Just because Paul is going along with it, doesn’t mean things are all good now.
> 
> It would be pretty fucked up of me if I made Paul start to enjoy it, but at the same time I don’t want to write pages of him suffering and miserable. (I’m not a sadist lol)
> 
> Still, this isn’t exactly what I’d call a healthy relationship. Honestly, writing these kinds of dynamics are more interesting to me than straight up romance type things.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh this is a screwed up dynamic. Don’t wanna make Paul enjoy it all of a sudden, but don’t want to write excessive misery. Uhhh

  
  
  
  


From that day on, John did not drug him. 

  
  


John would initiate it, and Paul would shut his eyes and let it happen. 

  
  


It was not every night that John had him. John would still take birds up to their suite, and Paul would do the same. However, the pleasure from the women was tainted at times by the memory of John’s hands on him. 

It was strange going back to normalcy, their original dynamic. Though Paul could never look at John the same way again, yet they had to be able to get on in order to write, record, and perform.

They had to, didn't they? It wasn’t like either of them wanted to give signs that something was amiss. 

That was Paul’s worst fear. He just knew it would be worse for him, being the pretty one, and all. They’d think Paul was the one who seduced John, using his feminine beauty to his advantage. They’d think Paul was the one who wanted it.

John wasn’t too keen on others finding out either. Finding out he’d been lusting after his friend, his bandmate. Despite his infatuation and not caring about that aspect himself, to the world, Paul was a man. Additionally, John didn’t want people to know the questionable things he did to Paul, just to get his satisfaction.

It was easy enough for John to treat Paul normally. He’d been sleeping with him for weeks before Paul found out after all. It didn’t feel so strange for him. He’d always treated Paul like this, even as his lust increased and he began taking him. Paul was his friend, that’s what he’d always been. John could take him, lust after him, but after he was finished, still see Paul as his equal.

For Paul, it was uncanny. He had to look John in the eye, speak to him as normal, despite knowing all he did, how John was looking at him all this time, knowing that John would do it again.

He was alone with John when they wrote their songs. Paul now always felt on edge, never knowing whether John would decide to take him at that moment or not.

Sometimes John would act so normally, treat Paul like his friend, almost as if all of this never happened. It was almost easy to let his guard down. They reverted to their banter, treating each other like the comrades Paul thought they always were. They spoke about the chords, their sound, the direction of rock n’ roll. The lyrics had always come easier to John, Paul the melody. He nearly began to enjoy it again. It was only John, his friend, doing what they’ve always done before.

Sometimes, they’d get through their sessions alone without incident, like it used to be. Like Paul had only imagined all of it, and things were alright again.

He wasn’t always so lucky though. They were alone, and it was made clear John wasn’t only his close friend.

Paul noticed it now, the way John looked at him. Maybe he had always looked at Paul this way, but Paul just didn’t take note. He had no reason to. 

John’s eyes often lingered on him. They followed his body, watching his hips, his legs as they moved. 

When they wrote their songs, face to face, John would have his usual friendly expression...but his eyes. They’d scan over Paul’s face, they’d look over his lips, Paul’s eyes, his cheeks. 

How had he not noticed this before?

Paul saw it all now. Despite John’s expressions, always friendly, always amiable when directed towards Paul, there was always a lust just behind the eyes. He looked at him with hunger. It had always been this way.

  
  


The night Paul had confronted him over the film, they fought. Paul was able to hold his own, but in the end he submitted to it. He had no other choice.

He could fight John off all he wanted. Paul could take him in a fight. But what good would it do? Paul couldn’t leave the group. It was all too important, the fame, the girls, the money. He’d made it, and was not going to give it up.

John might just start drugging him again anyway. Even if Paul was more careful than before (with blind faith that his friends wouldn’t be _drugging_ him for God’s sake) eventually, John would find a way. Paul couldn’t be so vigilant, on constant guard over his drinks or food. 

Maybe Paul would fall asleep normally, still sharing the same goddam hotel suite as John, just to find himself tied down. With the restraints, John would be able to overpower him. Take him as Paul cried and screamed.

Paul didn’t want gaps in his memory anymore. At least in this way he’d have some control, power over his own mind and actions, at least submit of his own will.

Paul needed to just put up with it. All he could do was believe John wouldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t, would he? John had said he still cared for him, despite it all.

Regardless, Paul no longer saw him in the same way. John had betrayed him. Violated him. 

John was supposed to be his brother, his dear friend. They’d gone through all of this together. Paul mourned for the version of John he’d lost. A month earlier, Paul would have trusted him with his life, no question. He had no trust for John now. Paul was still in shock, in disbelief that John could do this.

Paul had to still believe John would not hurt him. That’s all he had. 

The night of the confrontation, John had gotten him off. He whispered sweet things to Paul, as if Paul were his lover. It was all so backwards. 

John had wiped Paul’s fluids off his body with a warm washcloth, admiring his beauty. Paul could only lie there in bewilderment as John fussed over him.

The next morning, things were normal. They had to rush, pack, get on a plane. It seemed so run of the mill. His success was still evident, his life hectic. The fast pace surely distracted him from the new developments in his situation.

Once they landed, they unpacked quickly. They had a press conference, next a show. They played their set, then got some birds back to their suite. During these times, after these exhausting days, all Paul wanted to do was get laid then fall asleep. 

It was heaven, this. Paul loved performing like nothing else. It was magical. The crowd, the energy. Nothing got him higher than that attention and adoration. Paul screamed and shouted, giving his all to the crowd, and receiving it right back. The eyes were on him, all on him. In all honesty, it turned Paul on in a sexual manner. He’d be high off the endorphins, revved up by the admiration. His post-concert orgasms were the best he had, that pent up energy finally being released.

A close second was all the birds. God, he loved all the girls he got. Honestly, it was a driving factor of why he pursued music. He got them so easily.

Paul loved them all. There were gorgeous ones, plain ones, breasts of all sizes, hair of all colors. He loved their soft little bodies pressed against his firm pale skin, their sweet smell. They loved him too. Every one excited to get a night with him. Paul held them tight, and they held him. Their tight, hot, wet passages sucked him in, clenching deliciously around his desperate member. 

He fucked like a rabbit, hard, fast, and rough. They wouldn’t have expected it from his face eh? A sweet little babyface with angel eyes, but lustful as any other musician. He fucked with as much energy as he had onstage, though passionately as his loveliest ballads. 

The girls squeaked and moaned in their pretty high voices. All kinds of women. Paul grabbed their hips, their breasts, any soft fat he could find. He might have his femininity, but during these times, he felt like a man.

They called out his name desperately, but all Paul called them was “baby!” Too many names to remember. They’d be gone once the night was over. 

They rode him sometimes, sucked him off. It was all incredible. Paul loved to go down on them. He loved the taste and the way they squirmed, the power he had over them. When he was younger, Paul often looked over his mother’s anatomy books, scanning over the female genitals. Paul knew quite well where to put his mouth to make them squeal.

He’d take them from behind, pulling their long hair. Christ. The cute one. What a load of horse-shit. He’d bruise their hips in his tight hold. Some of them told him they were saving themselves for him. Great! He took them too. Another nice tight hole to fuck. How nice it all was! He fucked them deep and hard, more often than not, cumming inside. If anything happened, Brian would just pay them off, valid or not.

  
  


Paul had nearly returned to his old self. It had been a week since the confrontation. With everything going on, Paul nearly forgot about it. Everything was normal again. Things were _alright_ again. John had to go and remind him that things weren’t as they used to be.

Since the confrontation, he’d stayed back twice with John to work on their songs. At first, Paul was on edge, terrified to be alone with him. But as it went on, it seemed John was the same he always was. He treated Paul no different. They had their banter and conversation. The only difference was that Paul now noticed the ever-present hunger behind John’s eyes

It might be strange, but the memories of the film and all of it faded. Maybe it was over. Maybe John had his fill, returned to his old self that Paul knew and loved. None of it had happened. John had never drugged or violated him. He was his friend. He wouldn’t do a thing like that. 

Things were _alright_ again.

That night, however, it seemed that John had other plans. 

They’d stayed in that night to work. They’d brought out their notes, began to speak about their new album. They experimented with chords, the mirror image of each other as they played, eye to eye. The suite was quiet, only the distant sounds of the city, the faint squeals of the fans that have stayed out so late. 

The sole light came from a floor lamp, dimly illuminating the both of them. The yellow hue played across the planes of Paul’s face, casting one end in shadow. Paul’s eyelashes cast long shadows across his cheek, a glimmer in his hazel eye.

John played his idea of how the song should go. Paul disagreed. He played it slightly differently, singing the part to solidify his point. It was a slower tune. His delicate hands moved across the neck of the guitar, his sweet deep voice filling the room. Paul’s eyes were closed, losing himself in the melody.

John had stopped, causing Paul to stall as well.

“What’s up?” Paul said, a casual lazy expression on his face.

His heart stalled. There was that glint in John’s eye again.

“Paul…” John said. His voice was slow, deep. It was seductive. 

Oh Christ. Oh god no.

Paul felt those eyes boring into him. John was looking at him in that way again. A slight hunger was always present in John’s gaze toward him, but now it was crystal clear. His gaze was one of obvious desire.

“John...no.” Paul murmured. His face was pale. “No, no, no.”

John nodded. 

“Come on.” John said. His voice was in that low gravelly tone. He directed it towards girls he was picking up, not Paul. It was directed at Paul. “Come, now, Paul.”

John slowly placed his guitar down by his side, gently resting it on the floor. His gaze returned to Paul. Paul gripped his instrument tighter, looking at him with fear. Paul was frozen in place.

John brought his hands to either side of Paul’s face. He cupped Paul’s cheeks gently, stroking them with his thumbs. The skin was slightly cool from the temperature of the room. The grip was warm, squishing Paul’s soft skin, the baby fat he had there.

“How lovely you are, Paul.” He breathed, barely above a whisper. He said it with such admiration, such adoration. The words were genuine. It seemed that there was no doubt in John’s mind that he meant what he was saying.

It was all wrong. Paul looked back at him, fear evident in his wide eyes and drawn eyebrows. His lips were parted. He was petrified. 

He’d forgotten. He’d let it fucking slip his mind, reverting to the way it was before. He wanted it to be the way it was before. He wanted John back. He was so ready to accept things going back to normal. Paul had let his guard down. This wasn’t the same John as before.

“Why so afraid, Macca?’ He said softly, but John’s voice always had a harshness to it, regardless of intent. “I’ve never laid a hand on you, have I?”

John chucked, realizing.

“Besides the other day of course,” There was a grin on that cruel face of his. “...But I won’t now.”

Regaining mobility, Paul shook his head in John’s hold, maintaining frightened eye contact.

John smiled at him, his eyes gentle. It shouldn’t be this way. John brought his face closer. Paul’s grip on the guitar tightened. He placed his lips on Paul’s.

It was tender. It shouldn’t be, Paul didn’t want this. John sighed, the breath against Paul’s upper lip. Paul’s eyes remained open, darting around. He couldn’t move again. Christ. Paul had 5 o’ clock shadow, it seemed like ages since the morning. It didn’t lend much to his femininity, yet John was kissing him.

John deepened the kiss. Having a taste of Paul only made his hunger grow. He bit into Paul’s full bottom lip, tugging on it, bringing it into his mouth. He went deeper, tasting it deeper. Paul was reluctant, but gave John access. 

John smiled at his acceptance. He tasted that sweet mouth, hot and wet. It seemed that every bit of Paul’s body was addicting, delicious. Paul had such a small delicate mouth, pink petal lips, his little rabbit teeth that he felt tap against his. The lips felt so nice against his, so soft and plush and warm. He explored every inch of it, the incredible taste. John savored it.

This felt nothing like being kissed by a bird. John’s mouth was too firm, too large. Paul could _smell_ him. It was a masculine scent, and he could recognize it was John’s. The breaths were deep, and John’s skin was rough. It was obvious who was kissing him, even if Paul closed his eyes. He couldn’t distance himself from it as John invaded his mouth.

He pulled away, looking into Paul’s sweet hazel eyes, the dark arched eyebrows and long eyelashes. Such dreamy eyelids, giving him a serene look when his face was relaxed.

Paul looked so uneasy though, pale from John’s advances. He paid no mind to this. He knew Paul wanted it. Paul loved it. John could give him such sweet pleasure, as he had numerous times before. Paul would accept him.

“...Paul…” He whispered.

John tugged the guitar from Paul’s hands. He hesitated to let go, but ultimately allowed John to take it, place it to the side.

John crawled over to him, leaning over his body. He pressed his chest to Paul’s.

“...Paul…”

John looked deeper into him, eyes boring into his. He was much too close for comfort. Paul could feel John’s chest move as he breathed, pressing into his. He felt more of John’s body press against him. John was hard, pressing into Paul’s soft navel.

Paul shook his head. He hiccuped and squeezed his eyes shut.

Christ.

John took his lips again, sucking them in, tasting him. It was much too wet and hot against his mouth. John’s breaths were hot and increasingly heavy. Every part of John’s body was gravitating towards him, craving him

“Paul…” John’s whispers were ragged and slurred. It seemed that was all he could say.

John ran his hands slowly up the deep curve of Paul’s shapely hips, up his soft sides. His grip tightened, fully feeling the firmness of Paul’s body fat and tone.

Paul braced his hands against John. He didn’t dare push, but grounded himself, trying to have some semblance of control. Paul would get through it, let John have his fill. Paul needed his fame. He needed to be able to get on with John. He would do whatever it takes. 

John brought his hands around the back of Paul’s head. He felt the soft dark hair between his fingers, so long. He gently tugged, causing Paul to make a soft noise. John grinned. Paul liked it. Paul would like anything he gave him.

John brought his face to Paul’s neck, breathing him in, smile on his lips. Paul shuddered as his nose brushed against his sensitive skin. John brought his mouth to Paul’s seashell ear. He bit it lightly, gaining more sweet sounds from Paul, though nervous ones. Paul shuddered through it all, a shaky voice.

John kept his hold on him, but pulled back. He admired Paul. Beautiful, Beautiful Paul. What a lovely face. There was nothing more to it than that. He was awake, here with him. Paul looked at him clearly with his gentle eyes, clearly focused on him. Paul recognized him and understood what was happening. What’s more, Paul was allowing John to touch him, feel him. It was heaven. He would give Paul anything. Absolutely anything.

John brought him closer again, cradling Paul’s graceful little head to his chest. He stroked Paul’s back as he shook. His nose was buried in Paul’s hair, breathing in the scent. He sighed. Paul’s body was so warm in his arms. It was heaven. Heaven.

He rocked Paul’s body as he stroked his back. 

It was so strange. It wasn’t even sexual contact really, but John couldn’t do this before. They were Northern men. They couldn’t touch each other so intimately. John wanted this as well as the sex. Paul’s body was so gentle, so sweet. He was soft and warm, about the same size as him (though more slender). Some women could be so bony and fragile. Not Paul. He’d wanted to press his body against his. Feel Paul’s heartbeat.

It would feel even nicer, skin to skin. That soft pale skin pressed to his.

“Would you like to come to bed, Paul?” John whispered into his hair.

This made Paul shudder again in John’s grip. The hold was gentle, comforting even. It would’ve been fine if that was all John wanted. It was a shame about physical affection being taboo. It was relaxing to be held, the warmth of it. They didn’t have much of this familial comfort on tour. There were the birds, sure, but that was purely sexual, no deeper connection or care for it. If not for the context, it might even be relaxing. Paul’s back was being stroked, the tension dissipating from it. It was nice to be fussed over. In all honesty, Paul was quite tired. Not just from the day, but from all of it. He never had a moment to catch his breath.

Christ. Paul knew this wasn’t all John needed from him. That was more than evident as John’s arousal dug into Paul’s soft navel. Christ. John wasn’t just looking for familial comfort. Oh god. Oh Christ.

John’s hips shifted, and it dragged against him. Paul’s heart rate began to increase again. Oh Christ.

John stroked his hair.

“Paul?”

Paul shook out of the hold, scooting away. His face was drained of color. He shook his head wordlessly.

John’s expression grew irritated.

“Come on, Paul.” He scolded him as if Paul were a child.

Oh fuck. Oh Christ.

Paul shook his head again, his mouth was slack.

“Why not, Paul? Gave you a nice time last week didn’t I?” His voice was becoming more aggressive. He was frustrated at Paul’s rejections.

John shook it off. He wouldn’t get anything from yelling at him. Paul would just get more afraid.

John held out his hand. His voice was firm, but calm.

“You know what’s good for you. You’ll come with me.”

Paul trembled. He knew John was right. He had to. He needed to stay in the group. It wasn’t so bad was it? All he had to do was lie there as his body was touched, let John get his sick satisfaction from feeling him up, watching him cum.

Paul took the hand. 

John grinned his wide impish grins. It was the same look he had the first night when Paul laid down for him.

“Good, Paul.” He said breathily, in reverence. “That’s good, Paul.”

John stroked Paul’s soft hand with his thumb.

Paul had large hands. They were much larger than a bird’s, and had hair on the wrist a bird wouldn’t. He’d developed callouses from the guitar. John’s hands were bigger. Rougher too. Paul’s sufficiently masculine hands looked slender and delicate in John’s hold.

John pulled him up, guiding him to their room. Paul followed numbly, his body moving without much thought. His gaze was unfocused. He still didn’t fully comprehend what was happening.

What was happening? How did Paul get here?

He never thought It’d end up like this, seven years ago when he’d met John on a whim. He never thought this is where he would be, this level of worldwide fame. Christ. He was only fourteen then.

Another thought dawned on him. How long had John had eyes for him? Was it since that first day? The entire seven years he’d known him, was John just waiting for the right moment to take him?

John sat him down on the edge of the bed, hovering over him, a glassy eyed smile on his face.

“How sweet you are, Paul.” He said in awe, breathless. “How lovely you are.”

John ran his hands along Paul’s face again. What a lovely little face. An angel face. It was unfair that this beauty was all used on a man. If Paul were a woman, John would’ve married her. They’d have many children together. Perhaps Paul would crave him back.

As John ran his hands down Paul’s sides, he reconsidered. He didn’t want Paul to be a bird. He was already married anyhow. Paul was perfect as he was. Any change to his body would be a crime. John craved every bit of him, knob and all. 

Paul wasn’t a submissive little bird. He was his partner. Paul could fight him off if he wanted, but chose not to. Despite his features, Paul was as lustful as he was. He craved the power and admiration as much as John did. Paul was foul-mouthed and crude. Paul understood him. They were the perfect pair. It was good that Paul was a man. He was his equal.

John pushed Paul to his back. Paul complied, closing his eyes tight.

“Ah, yes. I’ll be good tonight.” John said, entranced by him.

He wanted to see all of Paul tonight. Unclothed and lovely, exposed to him, all that dark hair and pale skin.

John undid Paul’s shirt, those delicate little buttons. He slid off the boots that kept Paul’s feet in that lovely arched position. He undid Paul’s trousers. He told Paul to “lift’up” so he could slip them off. Paul hesitated, but complied.

Paul lay in front of him, eyes still shut and breathing heavily. He shivered at the cold air. Paul’s chest was so soft and inviting as he breathed, pale with sweet pink puffies. Paul’s legs were long and pale, shapely as he remembered, curving into those indescribable hips.

“Christ, Paul.” J said in awe. 

Christ. What a lovely body. It was as if he hadn’t even seen it before, each glimpse of it making him crave more. He got excited whenever a sliver of skin was revealed, no matter how much of it he saw. He’d never grow tired of it. No man had a body like this, and no woman could compare either. Paul was a beauty of his own.

John’s fingers curled around the rim of the briefs, and Paul’s eyes shot open. Paul stared at him pleadingly with wide eyes, but made no other protest. John smiled at him warmly, conveying all of his adoration and admiration.

Paul closed his eyes, humming as John exposed him.

“Beautiful, Paul” John murmured to himself.

Such soft pubic hair. So dark. It matched the hair on his head, so thick, soft and warm. Like deep chocolate, dark and savory on his tongue. 

He held Paul’s soft member in his hand, Paul gasping at the touch. It was warm and pliant, but would be heated and desperate soon enough.

John began moving his hand, Paul whining as he felt the sensation on his sensitive organ.

Sure enough, it hardened. It would always become aroused if given stimulation. Paul was young. He’d go up for no reason at all.

John whispered sweet things to him, words of admiration. Paul tried to tune them out.

Paul’s arousal was enveloped in a wet heat. His eyes shot open and he gasped from the sensation.

Christ. John was sucking him off. He’d never expected John to do this. Fondle him maybe, but he thought John was too proud to take another man in his mouth.

Christ. It was good too. Paul cringed. John must’ve done this to him before.

John sucked him in like a cunt. It was so goddamned hot and tight. John’s tongue ran over exactly where Paul liked it. It pressed flat against Paul’s frenulum, paying special attention to the spine, glands, and slit. Paul’s legs felt weak, pleasure building in his navel. Christ. If Paul closed his eyes, ignored the sounds and scent, it was almost like he was getting sucked off by a bird.

But Paul still couldn’t ignore his presence. He heard John’s heavy breathing, making sounds low in his through, seemingly enjoying the feeling of Paul in his mouth immensely.

Paul began to leak that sweet fluid from his slit. John focused on it, taking the ambrosia from the source. He’d take anything Paul would give him. The taste was addicting. He wanted to taste Paul’s whole body. How delicious he was.

Paul grew frustrated when the mouth was removed. He thought John would draw a hesitant orgasm out of him, then leave him be for the night. Suppose John wanted more. 

“Christ, Paul. I’ve missed this.” He said, slurring his words in passion. “Fuckin hell. None of the birds I’ve had this week were this good. You’re a fucking tart, Macca.”

John pressed his mouth to Paul’s pubic hair, feeling the softness and the scent against his face. This was a distinctly secual scent here, though the origin was Paul’s erection. The hair wasn’t wiry like many men had. Christ, it was softer than most women he’d been with. It was fluffy and dark, with that captivating scent.

He ran his lips up Paul’s navel. It was so soft and smooth. Not as pliant as a woman, but so nice and firm against his skin. The sweet scent here was enticing as well. 

He drug his nose up Paul’s body, over his stomach, tasting it with his lips.

John held onto Paul’s sides, squeezing the fat tightly, making Paul jump. He caressed them. Every movement from Paul was captivating. Paul was here. Paul was here.

John sighed against the skin.

He moved to Paul’s chest. Paul was so sensitive here, John loved it. John brought a sweet pink puffy into his mouth. The skin here and on his member was more delicate than the rest of Paul’s body. He sucked on it, played with it in his teeth. This did it, John grinned.

Paul stiffened up when John did this. John knew every little sensation shot pleasure straight to the hard-on between Paul’s shapely thighs, making that sweet head leak.

John felt it harden in his mouth. Paul couldn’t hold back his labored breaths. Paul’s hand was in John’s hair, tangled. The involuntary tugging sent pleasure right through John’s body.

John pressed his tongue flat against it, feeling the nub of it press against him. He snaked his hand back down, holding Paul’s hard knob in his fist. He didn’t move his hand, nor apply too much pressure. He just wanted to have a grip on Paul.

John moved his mouth to the other one, giving it the same treatment.Paul didn’t even have breasts, but with a chest this sensitive, it didn’t matter. Paul’s noises were like honey for his ears. Paul couldn’t hold them in, all from his goddamned nipples! Christ! It was incredible.

They felt so nice in his mouth, he could suck on them for hours. It would be unfair to Paul though, leave him leaking from his silt for ages, arousal getting more swollen and enraged, unable to have his release. 

John lifted off. Paul’s face was hazy and flushed, slight condensation from the pleasure. John grinned at him like a madman. Paul grimaced and shut his eyes. 

No matter. John went to grab those sweet thighs. They were so goddamned full. They were firm and supple in his grip. John pushed them forward and apart, watching those inner muscles stretch. Paul’s scent wafted around him, drawing in his senses. John was mesmerized. The hair, the soft pale skin.

Even the knob stirred hunger in John. It was so ready, so aroused. It curved upwards, a perfect even curve along the sensitive and hard spine. The head was so pink, swollen with blood and arousal. It was smaller than John’s, if only by half an inch, but it was the perfect size, the perfect shape. It was supposed to be an ugly organ. The butt of many jokes. A fucking plonker. Paul’s was immaculate. The hair around it took in the condensation, the scent of it.

Best of all, Paul was awake, aware of what was happening and why. The anticipation from him about what was about to happen made it all the better.

John’s grip on those thighs grew tighter. He had such a hunger for it, he didn’t know what to do. Well, he did. He wanted to fuck Paul’s sweet cunt. John still remembered what it felt like around him. So tight, so hot, it sucked him in

All he needed was his vaseline, then he could shove himself inside. He could feel Paul’s delicious heat clench around him. Paul would be awake, aware. He would know what was happening, truly know who was doing it and why. Paul would whine and shout as John ravished him, in that irresistible voice of him. He’d hold onto Paul tightly, and Paul would hold him back, their bodies pressed together, Paul’s warmth and heartbeat. He could take Paul’s sweet mouth in his, suck in those petal lips as if his life depended on it. Paul would be able to reciprocate.

John would ravish an awake, receptive Paul into the mattress. He could bite down on that white skin without worry, cum inside him without needing to clean it out. John could be as rough as he needed.

“You’re hurting me, John.” Paul said quietly from above him. This shook him out of his thoughts. John looked up.

Sure enough, He’d been digging his nails into Paul’s pale thighs, leaving deep marks. John relaxed his grip, smiling up at Paul warmly.

John brought his mouth down to those thighs. The soft fuzz tickled his lips. He slicked down the hair as he kissed and tasted them. Delicious.

John brought his mouth higher, closer to Paul’s entrance. He toyed with Paul’s perineum a moment, before moving lower.

“That’s sick!” Paul strained. He cringed as he felt John’s tongue _there._ It was disgusting, licking him there as if it were a cunt!

John ignored it, and continued to eat Paul out. It was frustrating him as well, ignoring his oversensitive knob just above it, focusing on his ass like this. It felt so wrong to feel the heat and wetness there. John ate him out with such enjoyment too, pushing his thighs forward.

Paul hummed in discomfort as John went deeper, the entrance clenching around his tongue. John’s nose was buried in the hair, the scents enticing him more. He could feel the heat coming off Paul’s knob radiate onto his forehead. Poor thing must be suffering from the lack of attention.

Paul could learn to wait. Paul never knew how to wait for things anymore. Whenever he was with a woman, he’d get whatever he wanted from them. He was only ever met with a “yes” or “of course” now. It made Paul right spoiled, expecting anything and everything sexually. 

John may be enamoured with Paul, but he knew every aspect of him, including the bad ones. Impatience, need for control, selfishness. Paul needed to understand that when John took him, his ability for pleasure was no longer in his hands.

John finally, without warning, licked a stripe up Paul’s length. Without having time to think about it, Paul moaned loudly, a delicious moan from deep in his chest. He needed this. 

Immediately after, Paul got embarrassed by his outburst, it pained clearly across his face.

John looked at him, grinning.

“Not so bad is’t?” He sneered.

Paul refused to meet his eyes. He became flushed easily due to his pale skin. The sexual touches alone would do it. There was always some pink to his cheeks already, around his eyes, on his ears and slender fingers. In the cold, Paul’s nose as well became an adorable shade of pink. Luckily, it was cold out often.

As Paul refused to meet his gaze, John sat up, scooting further from Paul. Paul looked at him strangely. Was he done? After getting Paul so worked up, he wouldn’t even finish the job.”

Paul’s head was so foggy with arousal, most of his blood being used on his swollen knob. He just wanted to get off. He needed it.

“Smile, Paul.” John said in his saccharine sweet voice. Whenever he spoke like this, Paul couldn’t help but feel he was being made fun of. “I want to see you smile, then I’ll continue.”

Paul’s mouth fell open slightly in disbelief as he squinted from his clouded vision. What?

“Suppose you could toss yerself off, but I’ll bet my mouth will feel nicer.” John said, a smug expression on his face. “Can’t say I wouldn’t enjoy seeing that though.”

Paul cringed. Tossing himself off seemed worse in a way. He’d be putting on a show for John, giving him material to get off to. It seemed more dignified if it was just something being done to him that he endured. 

Paul rested on his elbows, looking up at John. His thighs were parted slightly, the spots where John had put his mouth colder due to the moisture. His knob throbbed in frustration from the lack of contact, straining against the cool open air. It was nearly agony, needing to be touched more than anything.

Paul spread his thighs wider, attempting to decrease the pressure on his erection.

“Go on, Paul.” John said, that stupid grin still on his face.

Christ. Paul wanted to get this over with. He stretched his lips over his teeth, his cheeks bunching up. He gave John a split-second disingenuous smile, it not reaching his eyes.

John shook his head. Paul’s face fell again.

“Not good enough. A real one, Paul.” John’s snark showed through his sweet tone. “Look like yer happy that I’m gonna suck off that sweet little prick of yers.”

Paul grimaced, gritting his teeth at the word choice. He needed this though. Paul tried again, opening his mouth in his silly grins. He put it on for photos often enough. His cheeks bunched up, and it crinkled the skin around his eyes. Hopefully his discomfort didn’t show through them.

John raised his eyebrows, smile growing wider. Warmth flowed through his chest. 

“That’s good. Thank you, Paul.” He said adoringly.

He loved those silly expressions Paul made. He smiled so easily too. He had a lovely face when relaxed, but those exaggerated grins conveyed such joy. No wonder people liked him so much. Maybe not a beacon of purity, but positivity, yes.

He took Paul’s desperate swollen knob in his mouth. Paul groaned at the sensation. Paul’s voice was so deep. No woman on earth would sound like this during sex. 

Well, Paul wasn’t a woman was he? Such lovely sounds. They should really put it on an album. It may not even be obviously secual. Paul’s moans were always so melodic, so smooth, as if he really were singing. Paul did make a lot of shrieks and whoops in their music already, why not some genuine ones?

Paul allowed his face to fall again once John’s mouth was back on him. What were these mind games? Perhaps John just wanted him to play out his fantasy that Paul was enjoying this. That he wanted it. It was more humiliating than if John just cornered them fucked him, if he couldn’t control his urges. John’s actions were premeditated. John had thought out the logistics, drugging him, then getting him alone. He didn’t just fuck Paul one day on a whim.

The contact, the touches, it was as if John thought he was making love to Paul. John wasn’t even getting himself off at the moment, remaining hard in his trousers as he touched every inch of Paul’s body, looking at it, admiring it.

John sucked him off even more passionately, as if he craved Paul’s arousal more than sustenance itself. Paul’s legs twitched around John’s head. Why, why, it felt much too good. It felt way too good. Why did John want so much for Paul to feel good?

Paul’s head spun. His pride got weaker. His abdomen was buzzing with pleasure, his orgasm building up quickly. Paul had always been loud in bed, and he couldn’t hold in his voice. He called out and moaned, his mouth wide as he drew shallow breaths. He knew all of his noises only gave John satisfaction, but he couldn’t help it. His fists were balled up in the sheets.

Paul ground his hips into the hot wet mouth, John’s throat enveloping him. Christ. It was good, so good. John only took him deeper, caressing Paul’s shapely hips. Christ. With his head so cloudy, he could nearly forget it was John. All he could care about was his impending release. If John stipped now, Paul would die. He would surely die.

Paul’s back arched, his skin had a sheen of condensation. His face must be flushed. His mouth was open and eye unfocused. John hummed encouragement, relishing in every single reaction. Paul was here, lost in the pleasure John was giving him. He could give him all of this. Why did Paul need to be so difficult about it? Bastard.

There was nothing as satisfying as his usually poised and dignified friend without a thought in his head. He was so desperate for release, his prideful demeanor melting. John knew Paul would never act this way with a woman. Then, Paul was in control. Paul always wanted to be in control. Now, he wasn’t.

Paul’s hard heated member twitched and throbbed in his mouth. John knew it wouldn’t be long for him, the precum flowing freely.

John half considered pulling away without warning, leaving Paul’s throbbing heat with nothing but the cold air around it. Paul would probably thrust upward and cry in agony, face red, contorted in anguish. It would likely reduce Paul to tears. That would show him, for resisting this, an equivalent punishment for giving John similar sexual frustration all these years unknowingly. Maybe then Paul would understand.

No, that would be much too cruel. John smiled to himself. Not for tonight anyway.

Paul’s knob spasmed inside his mouth. Paul’s sounds weren’t as melodic as before. They were raw and pained as he began a violent orgasm. The sounds were still incredible, coursing through John’s body like electricity. Paul’s sounds were so deep and strained, quite nearly shouting. God, Paul could use his voice.

Paul’s hot release shot down his throat in spurts. John made sure to swallow every last bit. Every bit of it was delicious. Paul’s taste was beyond compare.

Paul released the last of his fluids, John eagerly swallowing them. Paul whined as he rode through it.

Paul’s breaths were heavy as his knob softened. John held it in his mouth for a moment longer, feeling the blood flow out of it.

Paul looked humiliated again in the post-orgasm clarity. The situation he was in dawned on him again, what John had seen and heard him do.

John smiled warmly at his friend, stroking his thigh. It seemed that Paul’s defences were back up. He tried to fold his arms in front of himself, hiding his sweet puffies.

John shot a hand to his friend’s flaccid member squeezing it, causing Paul to squeak and jump. Perhaps it was for his own self-satisfaction, to have power over Paul. John grinned at it. Paul drew his long legs inwards.

“Alright, Paul?” He said sweetly.

Additionally, Paul was completely exposed while John was still fully dressed. He felt John's eyes boring into him again now that he’d gotten off, losing the haze. Paul tried to cover himself. John’s arousal was still quite intact.

“Lovely,” John said in a low voice, running his hand up Paul’s skin, the body hair grazing against his palm.

Paul didn’t respond. He only looked out into space, eyebrows drawn as John made a final scan of his naked body. John grabbed Paul’s chin firmly, tilting it upwards. He pressed another kiss to Paul’s full petal lips, tasting him one last time. Paul shut his eyes and allowed it, though he knew where that mouth had been.

“I’m going out tonight, alright?” John said gently.

John ran his hand over Paul’s body, watching as the curves flowed. He ran a hand up Paul’s soft stomach, over his chest.

“I could touch ya for hours.” John murmured. “Beautiful.”

The warm hands were lifted off him. Paul laid still as he left, sleepy from the day before as well as the intense release.

  
  


\--

A few hours later, John came back slightly hammered along with a bird. 

Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Privacy hadn’t been a constant in their lives, and they weren't shy around each other in the group. They’d fuck women in close proximity of one another. 

However, more often than not, Paul would have his own broad, and didn’t want to lay in his hotel bed pathetically as his mate ravished this girl the same way he’d felt him up. 

Paul was so goddamned frustrated by the situation. He was angry. He might’ve wanted to have a broad for the night, but he had to act as John’s fucking plaything.

Paul stood out on the hotel balcony, outside the common area of their suitte. He lit a cigarette bitterly, and looked down at the city lights, the cold air nipping his face.

He could hear the distant sound of John’s strained voice as he plowed that poor woman. As it was before, John didn’t put extra effort into holding back his sounds. Seemed that John was going extra hard too, wound up from feeling him up earlier. That poor bird.

The sky was dark, but there weren't many stars in these cities. The air was brisk, Paul huddled into his night-robe. There were cars in the streets, the distant sounds reaching him. The nighttime lights reflected in the clouds of smoke abound him. Paul rested his elbows on the railing, lazily watching the city from afar. His cigarette developed a faint glow at the end, and he tapped the ash off the side of the balcony. He blew the smoke slowly out of his pretty lips, pink from the cold. 

It was faint, but as Paul stood on the balcony, cigarette dangling from his fingers, it was his own name he heard John groan as he pounded that poor young thing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

  
  


And that was the way it carried on.

  
  


Paul never knew when to expect it. Sometimes John would take a bird, still treat Paul normally, spend an evening doing nothing but their songwriting, making no moves on Paul. 

It was like the way it was before. Paul missed it, he craved it.

Still, he couldn’t help but be on edge, he never knew what nights John would decide he couldn’t resist him any longer.

Those were the nights John came onto him. Paul would shut his eyes and let it happen. John would get that look in his eye, and he knew it was all over for him. John would kiss him and whisper sweet things in his ear. He’d take Paul’s shaft in his hand, stimulate it as Paul hummed and drew shaky breaths. John loved to press his body against Paul’s, always wanting to be closer.

Sometimes, John wouldn’t even wait for them to be alone. In the studio, out of view, John ran a firm hand down his hip, Paul’s face falling and jumping at the contact.

To deal with it, Paul’s mind would separate the music and performing from the moments John would take him. Those moments weren’t real. John was only his close friend, despite the wandering gazes. Paul was able to act like his old excitable self. John’s new boldness snapped him right out of it.

John was careful, but enjoyed having a hand on him. Perhaps it was possessiveness, or just a need to touch him. Paul noticed that John was now touchier than he needed to be, a hand on his arm, turning his head, or shifting Paul’s body when showing him something.

In passing, John would run a hand across Paul’s lower back, his shoulder blades.

John used to touch him playfully before all this, just to mess with Paul for his own enjoyment, he had thought. Paul had thought nothing of it. Now, he knew the intent. John had seen him sexually all this time, these touches weren’t just platonic in nature. John touched him to see his reactions. Paul was beginning to rethink their whole dynamic.

It was late one night in the studio, and they were alone whilst they wrapped up. Paul was in his daytime state, enjoying the normalcy of the routine. Perhaps that had made him let his guard down. Foolish.

Paul had bent over slightly, placing his guitar on the stand. Without warning, a hand came down on his rear. 

Paul froze petrified. They were alone, so John had slapped him on the ass.

He suddenly turned, stumbled back to the wall. John only grinned at him smugly, self-satisfied but excited.

Christ. There weren’t two versions of John, the one who was his friend, who he wrote music with and spoke to, and another who craved him. They were one in the same.

John wordlessly moved on, putting away his instruments as well. It was frightening how quickly he could switch.

One time, after a show, John dragged him into a backstage closet. 

Paul had a sheen of sweat, still breathless and buzzed from the endorphins. John pushed him against the closed door from behind, and began to rut against Paul, a hand coming around to squeeze his groin through the trousers

Paul panted, still dizzy from the performance. The hand groping him was now winding him up.

Paul had fucked birds right after a show before, an endorphin high still over his head. It was incredible, releasing all the energy he built up during the set. Performing turned him on sexually, all of the attention and screaming, him giving it right back. Those orgasms would be the best he had.

Paul’s head spun. John’s grumbly voice was in his ear, whispering harsh words. John jerked him off roughly through the material. Paul had his hands flat against the door, his chest as well. John was putting his entire weight on him, pressing him against it.

John rutted against him harshly, sliding along his rear end through the material of both their trousers. It felt sickening, the hot arousal being ground into him. Paul was too dizzy to care. It was all happening so quick.

John fumbled with Paul’s trouser buttons erratically. Once Paul’s shaft was free, he wrapped his hand tight around it. Paul squeaked at the contact, and John pressed his other hand to Paul’s mouth, stifling the noises. It squished the soft fat on Paul’s face. He was weak and shaky in the tight hold, his heart beating a mile a minute.

Paul was already half hard from the show, and John was able to get him worked up quickly. Paul wheezed into the hand covering his mouth, eyes unfocused and blurry.

Paul’s hips shuddered and legs weakened as he was tossed off quick and hard. Any slower would be tortuous though.

John words were nonsensical, a lot of “yes” and “fuck”. They were definitely less tender than usual. He called Paul a “whore”, a “slut”, a “fucking tease”, and a “fucking tart”.

Paul’s knob drooled and throbbed in the tight hold and quick pace. It was swollen and red, all his blood was there, making it impossible to think straight. Paul forced breaths through his nose, it becoming difficult to breathe with his mouth covered.

“Fuckin slut, Paul.” John was mumbling, quite slurred. He must be as lightheaded as Paul was. “Fucking tease, you are. On that fuckin stage, fucking screamin like you’re getting fucked. That fucking arse. Fucking whore, you are. Fucking begging for it, you are,”

Paul only whined. He was too lightheaded to care. His arousal built quickly and he needed to get off. He didn’t care who was doing it or how it happened.

John’s words became more illegible, his thrusts more rough and erratic. He came into his fuckin pants, all from rutting against Paul’s sweet rear end. Paul got tipped over the edge as well, the speed and strength of the strokes becoming too much.

Paul’s voice was embarrassingly high when he came, as desperate as he was. His release got all over John’s hand, making a mess of the door, and dripping onto the ground. 

John rode through it, body pressed very tight to Paul’s. Paul was shaking from the adrenaline, heated, heart beating as quickly as his was. Paul’s breaths and cries were making John’s left hand moist, but he didn’t mind. Even when his mind wasn’t clouded with arousal, nothing from Paul was dirty to him.

The post-show body odor wasn’t quite pleasant, but Paul’s smelled nice to him. He loved all of Paul’s scents, from the gentle familiar one from his hair and skin, to the desperate, lustful one that radiated from his arousal. John liked this one as well, his energy and vigor from the show ebbing from his skin. It was all like a drug to him.

They both stood there as they breathed heavily, trying to catch their breath. John was still firm against Paul’s back, pressing him into the door.

Paul shifted his body. With the endorphins wearing off, and the orgasm letting him regain his clarity, he was put back into reality. Christ, John had fucking got himself off rutting against his ass! And he’d let him, whining as he was pushed up against the door.

His softening knob was still in John's hand. He was keeping a hold on it for the power, he supposed. To have a grip on him still.

After what felt like ages, their breathing returning to normal, John drew back. He turned Paul around in the darkness, zipping Paul’s fly back up. John fixed his own hair, tucking in his shirt and straightening out the wrinkles.

Paul hesitated for a moment. It all happened so quickly, his mind was still catching up. He began to straighten himself out as well. Paul was the immaculate one. It would be noticeable if he appeared shabby.

Paul straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair. His neck and ears were wet from where John had been biting and sucking. It made him cringe. He tried to ignore it. John had untucked his shirt quite a bit as he grabbed onto him. Paul’s fingers were still shaking from the adrenaline and aftershock as he fixed it. He could smell John’s terrible body odor all over himself, the exersion from the show. John had been pressing himself so tightly to him.

When Paul had finished, he saw John looking at him, the light from the edges of the door casting minimal illumination. Paul could just about make out his features. John was grinning that awful grin at him again, smiling as he watched him straighten up.

Paul cringed again. He was getting used to John’s eyes on him. It seemed that more often than not, he was eyeing Paul up, his gaze following him around the room. 

Perhaps he was just bolder about it now, not needing to keep it subtle around Paul. John looked at him with hunger or adoration, not hiding the way his eyes wandered. Paul always felt like he was being watched, those eyes boring into him. They lingered on his waist, his hips, his rear, and even his groin. John watched his legs move as he walked, such enchanting strides.

In the dim light, John could make out Paul’s features, and the illumination around his lovely silhouette. Even his silhouette was delicate and graceful.

John cupped Paul’s trembling face, stroking his soft cheeks. John placed a kiss to each of them, slightly damp from the exertion. He placed one to Paul’s delicate nose before taking his mouth. The kiss was much too tender considering what John had just done with him.

The kiss was chaste even, not delving deeper to taste every inch of it. John sighed as he held it, pulling Paul’s body closer. He was deluded, mad, treating Paul like his friend one moment, then pulling this lovey-dovey shit at the drop of a hat. It was infuriating.

“Paul...Paul...Paul…Paul...” John repeated under his breath. 

It was insane. What was John thinking? His voice was so gentle, filled with admiration. Just a moment earlier, John was calling him a “fucking tease”, a “fucking whore”. Before the show, he’d been speaking to him as an equal, the banter between everyone in their group. John’s tone at the moment was as sweet as he could make it considering the harsh gravelly voice he had. It all seemed so genuine. This is what worried Paul the most.

John rocked Paul’s body in his hold, their heart rates slowing down. It was dark in that supply closet. John continued in that saccharine sweet low tone, quiet in Paul’s ear. He wasn’t making much sense.

“Sweet little Paul, Dear Paul. I’ll always have you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, the lengths may vary.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Strap in boys.

  
  


It had been three weeks since the confrontation, Paul’s worldview being rewritten.

Paul was beginning to get used to the routine. Not enjoy it, but deal with it.

He still got to live the way he did before, take birds, adoration, fame, success. Some days passed, and not a thing was amiss.

There were times when they were all together and their group’s dynamic was alright again. That seemed to be when John resembled his old self most closely. 

During these times, while the others were close by, Paul was not on edge that John would try anything. In general, John’s treatment of him hadn’t changed much in the daytime, but he’d lay a hand on Paul when there were no eyes on them.

When they got a moment alone, not all of them, but some, John would take him. 

The routine was set. John would only touch him, get Paul off. That much was alright. Paul could block it out, wait for it to be over, pretend that this side of John did not exist.

—

Paul soon realized that this night would be one of those nights.

John had asked him to stay in. They both knew what that meant.

Sure, some nights they would actually work. They would write songs, and talk about music without incident. Like they used to.

But Paul knew that wasn’t on the table tonight. There was that glint in John’s eye again. He recognized that look all too well.

Paul resigned to his fate. He said parting words to his friends morosely, not letting his apprehension show.

He now knew that it was only John. He felt bad for suspecting George and Ringo as well. They still loved Paul, as they always did. They were his brothers, and Paul loved them dearly.

He just hadn’t known what to expect after finding out what John did. John had been his brother as well.

Paul was doing what he was doing in part for them. He didn’t want to break up the group at their expense as well. He was the one who brought George in, who brought in Ringo. They still cared for him. They still respected him. Paul could never tell them about what was happening, but in Paul’s eyes, they were all in the world he had to lean on.

Then, John and him were alone in the suite.

Paul didn’t move from his place in the armchair. John’s presence in the room loomed over him. Paul had gotten used to the routine, but he always felt an air of foreboding when the switch happened.

“Paul.” John said warmly. 

Paul made his body relax. John would touch him, have his fun, then it would be over. Paul shut his eyes, feeling a hand be gently placed on his leg.

“Come on.”

It was routine. With his eyes still closed, he let John guide him to the room.

It was always a different hotel suite, a different layout. Some were better than the others, but they always got the nicest rooms due to their high profile status. Quite a step up from the dingy windowless rooms in Hamburg.

Paul was wearing a cozy jumper over his shirt and tie. It gave him such a gentle look, even further softening his features. It was soft to the touch, the material better able to conduct Paul’s body heat than his suits. The dark color of the sweater complimented his dark eyebrows, his soft dark hair, his long eyelashes.

He let John lay him down against the pillows. He placed a chaste kiss on Paul’s lips. John straddled him, the body weight making it hard to move.

John deepened the kiss, resting his whole body on top of Paul’s. It was invasive, the weight boring down on him, every contour of his body pressing to his, John’s scent impossible to avoid.

John grabbed onto each of Paul’s soft hands. They were large, but smaller than John’s, delicate in comparison. Such slender long fingers, and nicely shaped nails, a large soft palm, padding on his fingertips from the guitar. So graceful.

The skin felt nice in his. Maybe it was juvenile of John to enjoy it to this extent, but he couldn’t even do this much with Paul before. Paul was his friend, a man.

Paul’s scent filled his senses, his body against him. John began to get hard again in anticipation. He started rutting his clothed hardening arousal against Paul’s soft one.

It was still surprising to feel a bulge there instead of the soft mound of a bird. Not any less exciting though. It was such a nice place to touch, and Paul’s reactions were so sweet. He was sensitive there, just as John was. John had to be gentle with it.

He placed kisses to Paul’s face as he ground into him, a smile growing. Paul’s sweet eyes were closed, so he kissed his eyelids, his cheeks. He stroked Paul’s hands with his thumbs. Everything about him was so addicting.

With the stimulation, Paul was getting aroused as well. He groaned in his lovely voice. It was truly captivating, all of Paul’s expressions. This felt so much more real now that Paul was awake.

It felt disgusting to Paul, feeling that hard organ grind hard into his own through the material of their trousers. 

Warmth was stirring in Paul’s navel, and he was inexplicably getting hard. His damn prick always had to get hard. It didn’t care what Paul thought.

The blood flow to it would make Paul lightheaded, make him more concerned with getting off than keeping his pride. It made him act in a way that indulged John’s sick fantasies. 

What else could Paul do? John would play with it, suck him off, do all sorts of things to make Paul’s navel buzz and his prick sensitive. Paul couldn’t help it, he would  _ moan  _ and  _ whine,  _ causing John to grin those humiliating grins at him. It seemed that every positive reaction from Paul gave him equal pleasure.

Maybe that’s what John was after. He wasn’t even getting off most times he did this to Paul. If John did, it’d be hidden from him, releasing in his pants as a consequence of the rutting. John wouldn’t get undressed, only Paul’s body becoming exposed. Paul shuddered at the thought of providing material for John to beat off to.

Speaking of it, John seemed to be getting more excited, the kisses becoming harder, grinding against him more roughly. Just as Paul’s own arousal began to get more worked up, John slowed down, then stopped.

Paul opened his eyes to see John grinning down at his body, hands running over Paul’s sides hungrily. He opened his mouth to speak.

“M’ gonna fuck yer sweet cunt tonight, Paul.” He said lavisciously.

Paul’s stomach dropped.

“You what?”

“I’m gonna fuck ya tonight.”

Paul wrestled himself out of John’s hold with all his strength. He pushed John away, scooting against the headboard.

“Like hell you will!”

John looked a bit angry, miffed perhaps that Paul suddenly rejected his advances.

“Paul?

“You’re not gonna goddamn fuck me...like a, like a bird! That wasn’t the fucking deal, John!”

John placed a hand on Paul’s leg, trying to soothe him. Paul kicked it away, scrambling further against the headboard.

“Calm down, Paul.” 

John sounded irritated himself, as if Paul was the one being irrational.

There was nothing fucking irrational with the way Paul was acting! At the concept of his friend taking him up bum!

“Come on, Paul. I’ve been waiting for ya to get used to it. Ya thought I wasn’t gonna want to fuck ya anymore?”

Paul’s face was contorted in mortification, his jaw slack. This wasn’t the deal! This wasn’t the fucking deal!

John moved to grab his wrists, trying to calm Paul down. John’s grip was too light, so Paul was able to yank them away. He pushed John away by the chest firmly. John was knocked back, landing on his arse with an “oomph!”

John got up to his knees, now glaring at Paul, lips drawn tight.

“This is happening, Paul.”

“Like hell it is!”

Dammit. Paul was acting up again. John had thought he’d finally gotten him to come around.

John reached for him a second time. Paul grabbed John’s wrist, tossing him off him. 

John tried again, laying a palm on Paul’s chest. Paul kicked him away. Hard. Paul wasn’t wearing his boots, but that firm punch to John’s gut damn well knocked the wind out of him. Fuck, Paul was strong. John kept forgetting.

Fucking Paul. He wanted to be violent again, eh?

John shot to him, sitting on Paul’s legs so he couldn’t kick them out. He seethed at Paul. John adored him, but looking at that stupidly sweet looking face made him just as angry. Paul didn’t have the right to look so gentle and innocent, knowing what John knew about him. He looked like fucking Bambi, like a fucking starlet. Fucker needed to learn his place.

He grabbed Paul’s dainty little collar, slapping him clean across the face.

Paul stared at him shocked. Paul’s stupid little face, wide eyed and suprised, only made John want to hit him again.

So he did, harder this time on the other side.

He slapped him a few more times until Paul wouldn’t look at him, only look downward and breathe shakily. John was still gripping his collar. Paul’s lower lip trembled.

John didn’t want to leave any marks on him, so he didn’t use his fists. Additionally, there would be questions if Paul had a black eye the next day, a split lip or a bloody nose. The day after the confrontation, John had told the others he got in a bar fight. Paul’s cheeks were only pink where John had slapped him.

“Don’t make me hit ya, Paul.” John hissed through his anger, trying to calm himself down.

He did feel a bit bad, seeing Paul shudder, frozen in fear, unable to meet his eyes. Paul had this coming though, he asked for it. Paul had hit him first.

“It’ll be good, Paul.” John said, voice becoming sickly sweet again, despite the ache in his gut.

This snapped Paul’s eyes back to him. He looked afraid at John. He shook his head frantically, maintaining eye contact.

“No, no.” Paul said, face white.

“Well, I used to fuck ya.” John frowned. “Don’t ya suppose it’s a bit selfish, lettin’ me pleasure ya, but never givin’ back?”

Paul shook his head. Letting John pleasure him? As if it were Paul’s idea?

“It doesn’t hurt if that’s what worries ya. I make sure of’t.” John paused, thinking to himself, then shrugged. “Well if yer gonna be that way, I can always start drugging ya again.”

Paul paled further, if possible.

“You wouldn’t…”

“Why not? I’ve done it before.” 

John fucking chuckled. Paul saw no humor in any of this.

“John…”

Paul grabbed his arm with both hands pleadingly.

“But I let you touch me...isn’t that enough?”

He tried to make his voice seductive. It normally came naturally to him, charming others, but in his state it was hard to cut through the fear.

Paul pressed his chest against John’s, arching his back like a bird. He took John’s earlobe in his mouth, sucking on it, nibbling with his teeth. 

It felt heavenly, John would admit. He craved nothing more than for Paul to touch him back, enjoy himself. Paul didn’t seem happy about it though. He was shaking in John’s grip. It seemed like Paul was straining himself, fighting against his disgust. He was forcing himself to do this out of fear.

Paul continued in his low, faux-seductive tone. This was how he picked up on birds, and it worked. It was impossible to resist that voice, being directed at you in a risque manner. Paul’s voice was shaky though. It wasn’t genuine.

“Am I not good anymore? You can’t just enjoy me like this?”

He couldn’t fool John with this display. Paul was a terrible actor. He’d rather have Paul just lay still and accept his pleasurable touches than be dishonest. He could see the clear repulsion in Paul’s body.

“Christ, Paul. I know you’re hating this. Stopit.” John said curtly. 

Paul instantly retreated as he obviously wanted to.

“Don’t do tha’. I don’t care to see ya fake it. I can tell y’know.” John muttered.

“I don’ want ya to fuck me.” Paul said miserably, humiliated. 

“Why not?” John said indignant. “Ya enjoy everything I give ya. You’ll enjoy this too. You’ve got too many hang ups. Stop bein’ so prideful and let me make ya feel nice.”

Paul shook his head again. He looked so pale and afraid. When John moved closer to him he cowered as if he was going to get hit again.

Instead, John wrapped his arms around Paul’s body, bringing him close. Paul wasn’t much smaller than him, but was more slender.

“My dear friend,” John said into his ear. His words were slow, deep, and gentle.

Paul’s heartbeat was quick and panicked. John held him snugly, burying his face in Paul’s shoulder. They didn’t hug like this, it was too familiar. 

He waited for a good while, waiting for Paul’s heartbeat to slow. It was much too comforting for the context. The familial comfort. It inexplicably worked to calm him down. Paul was so tired.

After his heartbeat slowed, John spoke again.

“Paul.” he drew out in that sweet tone. “Let me...”

He slid an arm between their bodies, reaching to cup Paul’s clothed member. Paul held his breath. He’d softened after the confrontation. John stroked it gently through the material, stimulating it again.

“It’ll be nice for ya.”

Paul tried to keep his breaths even. John was still holding him in that familial way, unable to see his face. Paul made his soft noises as he was stroked to size

“Nice, isn’t it?” John said

No response. 

John squeezed it. There it was, a short squeak from Paul.

“Yes...” John said.

Paul’s arousal began to increase, and his body relaxed further. John could hear those sighs in his ear. Paul even pressed his hips into it, unintentionally or not. 

It all gave John an odd sense of melancholy, these sweet reactions and close proximity. Paul was his friend. Was John doing something so horrible to him? Was he adding an unnecessary misery to Paul’s life? That wasn’t something he would want to do. 

It made him sad, the way Paul seemed to deflate when John got him alone, setting his sights on him. Paul would stiffen up whenever John touched him. It seemed that he was always on edge. 

He allowed it, he made his sweet sounds, let John pleasure him. On the brink of orgasm, Paul’s eyes were cloudy with lust. If he caught John’s gaze, he would look at him with need, cheeks flushed at eyes blurry. Those were the times it seemed that Paul really wanted it. But after he had his release, Paul looked so ashamed, exposed to John and the reality of it dawning on him.

“You still care for me, don’t you Paul?”

John was still stroking him, his tone uncertain. 

What did he expect Paul to say?  _ Yes, of course I still do _ ? 

Paul did care for him once. He still wanted to pretend that version of John still existed. However, in his logical mind, he knew that he didn’t. The John he thought he knew would never do this to him. He had cared for Paul, didn’t he? 

Maybe he had never existed in the first place. 

Paul had to face reality. The John he knew before and this one were one in the same. Any other version of him was only a fantasy. John had always been capable of doing this to him. He had been lusting after Paul this entire time, as long as god knows when. Paul had seen him as his friend, his equal, but to John, Paul had always been an object of sexual desire. 

Paul could probably cum from the stroking if John kept going. He was showing the signs, the lessened pride, the shivers down his back, slight movements of the hip. 

John made himself stop his hand, pulling it away. Though he took pleasure from every little sound and movement, Paul wouldn’t get off so easily tonight. 

Paul stiffened up, then pressed his hips forward in complaint. 

Christ. It was indescribable feeling Paul push his erection into his navel. It seemed that by being unable to see John’s face, he was less afraid to show those reactions. Less of a feeling of being watched, John supposed. 

That gave him an idea. He pulled back, looking at Paul’s pretty flushed face. 

Paul’s eyes refocused. He lost his dazed expression, putting his barriers back up.

“How about I take ya from behind? That way ya don’t have to think about it as much.” John suggested.

Despair flashed across his face. Paul gritted his teeth and looked to the side, eyebrows drawn. He looked like he would dry heave. Paul pressed his mouth shut, then bowed his head solemnly, eyes closed.

Paul didn’t respond, but offered no resistance, so John took that as a yes. He gently smoothed down Paul’s lovely dark hair, the softness and warmth against his fingers. Paul was so delicate, so graceful. He ran his hand down Paul’s cheek, tracing the contours. He would be alright.

He lowered Paul down to his stomach. Paul complied, though was shaking. He gripped the sheets in his hands to ground himself. Paul didn’t turn his head to look at him.

John ran his hand over the curve of Paul’s back.

“It’ll feel good, Paul. Promise.” He said gently.

Paul only shuddered at this. It seemed that he had resigned, but judging by his state, he was deeply dreading it. He was shaking rather hard, forcing himself to stay still. John hated to see his friend like this.

There was no reason for Paul to be acting this way. John wasn’t going to beat him, he wasn’t going to hurt him. This felt good to Paul. He knew it did. Paul had always enjoyed this before, his little prick hard and leaking, murmuring through his haze. Paul liked everything he gave him. 

It was all his pridefulness. Paul was much too hung up on the specifics to enjoy this. He’d feel much better once John began to give him that familiar pleasure. John would never do anything that would purposefully hurt him.

John unzipped Paul’s fly and began to tug his trousers down. He weighed Paul’s erect member in his hand, smiling at the familiar feeling of it. It was nice and warm. Paul whined at the contact.

John’s eyes moved to that rear. God, what a perfect ass. He rarely even saw asses that nice on women. 

It wasn’t just John either, he would see eyes wander. Paul could be talking to somebody, man to man, but as soon as he looked away, they’d sneak a glance. Paul was quite oblivious to it, how many people looked at him with lust the moment his back was turned. What a tease, Paul was. He attracted everybody. He even used it to his advantage at times, yet another devious aspect of him hidden behind that angel face.

John wanted to slap it, but he knew that would only humiliate Paul further. John would be gentle with him tonight. He ran his hand over the curve of it, the firm skin well aiding his growing arousal.

John brought his mouth to it. God, what a perfect ass. He truly did love Paul’s knob, but if he had a cunt, he’d suck and fuck it for hours.

Paul groaned at the feeling. He still felt nauseous whenever John did this. How could he possibly enjoy this? Paul thought it was disgusting, but John seemed to immensely enjoy licking him there. It was sickening.

John pushed his tongue inside. If he got it deep enough, the tip of it could just about graze that special spot inside Paul, causing him to stiffen up and moan. See? If it was such a disgusting place, why did Paul have that lovely spot in there? John could tell Paul got great pleasure whenever it was stimulated, shooting straight to his prick, making him leak.

After having his fill, John pulled away. He moved to his suitcase, rooting through it. His hand closed around the vaseline that had gone unused for a while. Suppose they used it for their fingertips sometimes, even with the callouses, they began to hurt after playing after too long.

John slicked up his fingers and pressed them inside. Paul grumbled into the duvet. It seemed that he was still distancing himself. Good luck with that. Paul would be on cloud nine soon enough once John began to fuck him.

John found that special spot and pressed into it, drawing out Paul’s sounds. He didn’t want him to cum from this though, so he tried to focus on stretching Paul out.

He was soon able to get another finger in, then another. The hot passage clenched wonderfully around his fingers. John was so excited to feel it around him again. He tried to stretch it as much as possible, not hurt Paul when it went in.

Paul was just so tight. John knew going in that the back was tighter than a bird’s cunt, especially when so seldom used. Paul was tighter than the hookers he’d been with.

When John was satisfied, he pulled his fingers out and began to slick himself up.

Paul’s face was still buried in the duvet, trying to block it all out. He shivered at the exposure, in dread. His perky little ass was raised, his back curving beautifully, disappearing under that soft dark jumper. It contrasted so nicely with his pale skin. 

John rubbed his length slowly in the crease of Paul’s ass, deeply enjoying how the skin grazed against him. John had spent many long nights restless due to that goddamn rear. He had to try his damn hardest not to unload just watching himself slide against it.

Paul hummed a high pitched whine in discomfort. It felt so horrible, that heated length rubbing him in that sensitive area. Unlike before, he wasn’t clothed. This wasn’t through his trousers like he’d gotten used to. There was the looming threat of John slipping it inside. Christ. That was exactly what John was going to do. He let out a muffled cry into the duvet, holding back those sounds. 

He had to fight against every instinct he had to stay still during this moment, not kick, bite, and scream, anything to prevent what was about to happen. He wanted to fucking beat John’s face in. For doing all of this to him, the mental torture. 

What a perfect rear. John tried spreading it more, pressing his head against that little entrance.

“Ready, Paul?”

He couldn’t see Paul’s face, but he seemed to be quite tense with the idea of being fucked. Paul shook and was breathing shakily. John rubbed his lower back, soothing it. Paul would enjoy it soon enough.

“...John…” Paul said in trepidation. 

He knew he couldn’t talk John out of it, but maybe, just maybe, the John he knew would take over. Maybe he’d realize what he was doing, feel terrible. They could move past it. Maybe all this was a mental break from the pressure, fixating on Paul because he was there. Paul knew he couldn’t fight back, get beaten down, dissolve the group.

John only kept rubbing his lower back, a warm expression of sympathy.

“It’ll be good for you too, Paul. You liked it before. Just let go. I’ll make it good for you.”

John’s tone was gentle, but it made Paul all the more anxious. It would’ve been better if John just didn’t care, not obsessed with Paul enjoying it. 

If John had only fucked him hard, Paul just a cunt to him, ignoring all of his cries and pleading, if John was cruel, at least it would be honest. It would hurt immensely, but this delusion was more worrying. It was like John was losing it. John couldn’t do this to him, and care about Paul at the same time. He had to pick one or the other. 

Paul’s breath stalled when John began to enter him. He did so slowly, easing Paul into it. It was indescribable, the feeling of sliding into him for the first time, after so long. John couldn’t believe he was able to put it off so long. Paul was so warm and tight, sucking him in, pleasure blooming over the entirety of his abdomen.

God, he’d missed this. It was heavenly. 

The effects spread over John’s whole body. His vision blurred and his head spun, the pleasure causing his hair to stand on end. He realized he was beaming, an impassioned grin stretched over his face, eyelids fluttering. His hips were flush against Paul’s. He’d been fucking women this entire time, but none of them could even compare. It was a perfect fit. John had been denying himself this for weeks.

Even better was seeing himself inside that perfect ass. He had to do basic maths in his head to keep himself from premature ejaculation.

More than the otherworldly feeling of Paul’s cunt, it being Paul that he was fucking gave him the greatest pleasure. 

This was the only way John could truly find satisfaction. Touching Paul offered temporary relief.

In addition to not fucking him, John wouldn’t expose himself to Paul. He wouldn’t cum in front of him. John was trying to ease into it, show Paul how good he could make him feel. 

He could just picture Paul’s reaction if John came onto his body like the nights he was sedated. Paul would watch with embarrassment and mortification, trying to cover his exposed body as John tossed off to him. Paul might dry heave and cry out in disgust when the spurts landed on him, perhaps even tearing up in humiliation. Making Paul miserable did nothing for John sexually. He wasn’t a sadist for Christ’s sake.

Touching Paul’s body, making him orgasm, obviously would rile John up. To compensate, he would go out, pick up birds to replace Paul. He released his pent up frustration on them, trying to imagine Paul in their place. It would never be the same. Their voices were too high, their bodies too scrawny and little. 

He was close once. He got this bird with soft dark hair, arched eyebrows, and a little mouth. She was a pretty one, too. Flat chested like Paul was. That didn’t even work.

She was excited to spend the night with John. Christ, it should’ve been great. Her body was incredible, soft pale thighs and a slim waist. It seemed though, that her resemblance to Paul only made it more frustrating that she wasn’t him. 

John found himself staring at her little hands. They were so pretty and delicate, but it only made him wish for Paul’s larger ones, the soft dark hair on his forearms. That woman was smooth and pale, she didn’t have the soft body hair Paul did. She didn’t have the same scent. Her voice was too high and squeaky as he fucked her. John yearned for Paul’s sweet deep voice, so gentle.

John loved birds, don’t get him wrong. He would’ve ravished this broad for hours at any other time. He loved fucking birds, but he needed to fuck Paul as well. That was the only way he’d be truly satisfied.

Still, John focused on her face, eyesight blurry. He tried to imagine Paul in her place. Her face was similar enough, though much too small, distinctly feminine. Her teeth were different too. Completely straight. John wanted Paul’s little rabbit teeth, the canine that stuck out endearingly. Her lips were the wrong shape. John got increasingly irritated, fucking her harder. She let out more squeaky noises.

In a moment of weakness, he’d grunted Paul’s name. The damn broad noticed. She was taken out of it, looking at him miffed. She covered her chest. She could obviously assume which Paul he meant, recognize her resemblance to him. The sex ended there, and she left disgusted at being a stand-in for his male bandmate.

Now it was Paul’s scent, his warmth and shapely body John was fucking, pressed tight against him. Paul was the perfect size, the perfect combination of masculine and feminine. Paul’s breaths were familiar and deep. It was clearly his dear friend he was buried inside, not some bird he was unloading his frustration upon.

Even better, Paul was awake and aware of what was happening. It felt like the first time John was fucking him for real, not an unconcious shell of him. Paul knew what was happening, he was here with him. This was finally, truly Paul who he was fucking.

John began to move inside him, Paul whimpered. John knew he wasn’t in pain, likely just embarrassed, his pride bruised.

John brought his lips around to Paul’s cheek, his arms massaging his sides underneath his warm jumper and shirt. He released the tension in those muscles, feeling the soft fat. Paul began to shiver again. It must be a strange feeling, being stretched like this.

Paul’s passage was still so tight, so warm and smooth clenching around John’s arousal.

Paul’s hums of exertion were liquid gold, filling every crevice of John’s mind. That fucking voice. No woman on earth he found would sound like that. Such a fucking beautiful, melodic voice, so sweet and gentle. He’d recognize it anywhere, Paul’s voice. So sweet and deep. John could never sound like that. It called to him in his dreams. No wonder they sold so many records. It was the perfect siren song. John didn’t know what made the intonation so gentle at the end of his words.

“It feels incredible inside ya.” John cooed in his ear. “Take your time. Beautiful, Paul.”

Paul’s face was still buried in the duvet, covering his head with his arms. His hips were raised off the bed for access, resting on his knees. His lovely back was arched due to the position.

John ran his hands back up Paul’s bare sides, dragging his nails down them. The skin was so fucking soft, John wanted to obliterate it, leave red marks and bruises all over him.

John would usually rush to ravish his partners, but he wanted to savor this. He drew out each thrust, enjoying each one to its fullest. He was in no rush to orgasm. He would be happy for it to last forever. Paul’s muscle sucked him in, trembling around his length. It was so easy to slide in and out with the lubrication.

John ran his hand over that perfect rear. He held back from bringing down his hand hard. He only caressed it.  _ Later _ he thought.

“Oh my...” He groaned with intense passion.

How odd. He would normally swear his dick off during sex, but John couldn’t even find the words.

Paul’s breaths came out in gasps when he thrust in. John was trying to hit that spot inside him, and it seemed that he was succeeding. Each sound that Paul let slip out shot warmth through John’s body.

John had taken him from behind for the sake of Paul’s comfort, so that he wouldn’t be humiliated or overwhelmed having to watch John fuck him. Now Paul could focus on the sensation.

Yet, he wished he could see Paul’s face. Even without seeing his face though, this was clearly Paul. It was leagues better than any surrogate bird. The sounds, the scent, it was all so familiar and perfect.

Paul was still hard from before as well as the constant thrusts to his prostate. His erection hung underneath his soft stomach, hot and ready as Jon fucked him. He curled a hand around Paul’s body, finding that delicious knob and wrapping his hand around it.

Paul’s breath hitched at the contact. John began to stroke him off slowly and firmly in rhythm with his drawn out thrusts.

“M’ good to you, aren’t I, Paul?” John mumbled into Paul’s hair. 

John wasn’t hurting him was he? John wasn’t making his life miserable was he? He cared for Paul. Paul was his dear friend. He wouldn’t do things to make him suffer. He tried his best to make it good for Paul.

John kept stroking him off. Paul’s breaths were shaky, voice slipping out now that his knob was being played with. His precum leaked onto the sheets between John’s fingers.

John began to pick up the pace very slightly, still very slow and passionate by his standards. He made his thrusts slightly harder, just to get those little gasps from Paul when he shoved it in.

Nothing felt this right. Paul seemed to be enjoying himself as well, considering the sweet little gasps and sounds. John was taking his time, not rushing. He didn’t want to just cum and go to sleep as he did with the birds.

His release built slowly, taking in every bit of Paul. It seemed that time was slowing as well. John felt warm and serene. His body was pressed so close to Paul’s. He felt that their heartbeats had synched. He’d never felt so close to him, even more than the times John had fucked him before. Paul was awake and receptive. They were one soul.

After what felt like ages, John noticed the tell-tale signs Paul was getting close. His lower back stiffened, his voice was higher and less composed. Paul’s sweet little member twitched in his hand, very heated at this point.

John began to speed up the pace he was tossing him off, and Paul let out a beautiful cry, a jerk of his hips.

Paul arched his back more, tensing his shoulders and pulling up the duvet clenched in his fists. Paul began to shudder, a thrust into John’s grip as the rivets of pleasure ran up his body.

Paul cried into the duvet, his sweet deep voice as the first burst of release came out of his swollen cockhead. His noises were heavenly as always, loud and breathy despite being muffled. 

John sped up nearing his own release. The way Paul clenched and tightened around him during his orgasm made it impossible to hold back. That sweet passage coaxed it out of him, impossibly delicious.

John groaned from deep in his throat. His head felt like it was full of glue, it was nearly painful. Was it this good last time? He didn’t even know. He shoved himself as deep as possible, making sure every drop of his release made it inside. His heart beat a mile a minute. All he could think about was Paul’s hot sticky release in his fingers, his scent, that warmth, that wet tight passage.

He didn’t know how long his release lasted. John lay on top of Paul a long while, softening. This was bliss as well, the warmth underneath him, Paul’s gentle breaths and soft heartbeat. John felt so calm.

After many minutes had passed, he lifted off Paul. John pushed a finger inside, prompting an uncomfortable groan from Paul. John smiled as he felt his warm fluids inside, leaking from the interest. He found Paul’s sensitive spot, pressing down, making him whine. It must still be sore, Paul had just came after all.

Paul turned his head to look back at him. John’s face fell. He pulled his fingers out.

Paul’s face was pained at red, dried streaks of tears on his face. His rabbit teeth were gritted as he looked at John with misery and humiliation. His dark eyebrows were drawn.

“What’s wrong, Paul?” John said, voice strained with worry. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? Oh, Paul…”

Paul shouldn’t be hurt. John had prepared him, and Paul made no indication he was in Pain. If he did, John would’ve stopped. Paul had no marks on him.

Paul looked away from him and buried his face in his forearms, weeping quietly. He was holding back the sounds, only letting shaky breaths escape. His back’s shaking was giving him away. Paul didn’t cry in front of him.

“Paul…” John tried his best to console him, rubbing his clothed back.

Paul paid him no mind. Christ. He’d let himself be fucked, all for the sake of keeping his position, staying in good with John so he could continue his fame. Why him? John could be as kind as he wanted, but he could never make Paul enjoy what was happening to him.

Paul knew John had fucked him numerous times before, but it was another thing altogether to be awake for it. He felt every sensation, John’s weight on his back, the touches and sounds. It invaded his body, stretching him out where it shouldn’t be. On the tape it was only a disturbing image etched into his brain, it was much worse to experience it.

John had whispered gentle things into his ear, moving so slowly as if they were making love. This wasn;t love. John had gone completely mad. This wasn’t the John he knew. That John had died a long time ago if he’d ever even existed. Paul had just kept refusing to accept that.

Paul could feel the hot fluids still inside him, seeping into his gut. John had cum inside him. Paul had to feel those hot spurts be shot into him. Paul felt so disgusting. 

John tried to console him. He stroked Paul’s back, saying sweet things. He told Paul how good he was, how nice his sounds were. Paul blocked it all out.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited intervention! :)

Paul was out for a radio interview. They had a rare day off from performing, other things scheduled. 

John had gone out to see some local art. It was quite refreshing to put on a disguise and walk about unnoticed like he used to.

A couple hours later, he returned to their hotel rooms.

His two other friends were already there, talking amongst themselves. When John walked in, they turned to him. He smiled at them, hanging his hat on the coat rack, taking off his silly granny glasses disguise.

“Eh, John.” George said. “We need to talk to you.”

“What about?”

His friends looked at each other.

“About Paul.”

That got his attention. John raised his eyebrows.

“Got sick of him shutting down yer ideas, huh?” He said.

George shook his head.

“Nah, it’s not that. We was worried about him.”

“How come?”

“Well…” Ringo said. “Doesn’t he seem a bit odd lately?”

“I went to tap him on the shoulder the other day, an’ he nearly jumped.” George said. “Like I was gonna hit ‘him or somethin… dead worrying it is.”

John took a moment to look thoughtful, looking upward and to the side.

“I’ve noticed it a bit too.” John spoke. “Maybe it’s all the pressure, eh? He overworks himself more than the rest of us. Sleeplessness and such, y’know?”

They nodded grimly in agreement.

“Poor lad must be gettin’ worn out.” Ringo said.

“We was thinking, John, we could talk to him, yeah?” George said. “See how he’s doin’. We can’ really do much, but we can lend an ear, y’know. Find out if something’s up.”

They waited a bit, fiddling around with their instruments. About 6pm, Paul returned.

Paul noticed his friends hadn’t gone out. They turned to him as he walked through the door, distracted from their respective tasks. Paul hung his coat up on the rack, shooting them a puzzled look.

“What’s this about, boys?” 

They all looked at each other. George spoke up.

“Well, Paul. Frankly we’re all worried about ya.”

Paul’s expression had been friendly, if not curious. His face fell. Why were they bringing this up? Paul had been hiding it well, he thought. He was quite normal during shows and recording sessions. He was able to revert to his original self rather easily then, especially with the others around.

And most concerning, why was John here? He fucking knew what was up. The fucking cunt. That bastard was fucking sitting there, mimicking his other friend’s concerned expressions, sympathetic smile on his face. The fucking nerve of him.

“How come?”

Paul kept his voice casual. Dismissive. Like hell he’d say anything with John there. Even if he wasn’t, Paul would never let on what was happening to the others. 

If Paul knew them as well as he thought he knew John, they’d be sympathetic. Maybe they’d even try to help him. But what could they do? Kick John out? Disband the group? 

That was out of the question. What would the explanation even be? If the truth came out, Paul’s career would truly be over. 

It was enough to look like a bird, but to have his supposed fucking partner to have this sexual fixation on him? The press would have a goddamn field day with this. They’d make Paul out to be the scapegoat. He was an easy target. 

Already, they loved to poke fun at his pretty face, the girls who liked him. Any little thing their group did too, even mundane details would be printed, capitalizing on their popularity. Christ. If this got out...He’d be a fucking joke. He wouldn’t be able to show his face again. He’d never get a girl to marry him. Christ…

“Well, we’ve all noticed you’ve been acting strange.” Ringo said. “Is it the pressure, man?”

Paul was shaken out of his thoughts. 

“Strangely how?”

“If there was anything going on, you’d tell us, wouldn’t you?” John said.

Fucker. Mother fucker. John was speaking so sweetly, a fucking gentle look on his face. He was taunting him, so subtly the others couldn’t possibly notice. Paul had to hold back from lunging at him, wrapping his hands around his throat. Fucker. Fucking cunt. 

Paul’s anger might have come across subtly in his expression. George cleared his throat. His eyes snapped back to their faces.

“If it’s the tourin, we can slow down. Let’s talk to Brian, yeah? It is gettin’ a bit much.” He said.

“Yeah, s’like they don’t even come to see us play. Jus’ scream.” Ringo said. 

This pissed Paul off further.

“We’re not gonna fucking stop tourin.” He seethed. “Pretty low, int it? Makin’ up some phoney issue to get me to agree to quit?” 

Like hell they were going to stop performing. He had noticed they’d begun to complain a slight amount. Paul had none of it. They knew what they were getting into from the beginning. 

Performing was incredible. Paul fucking lived for it. He could tune out his worries, exist outside of time for a moment. There was nothing like it. He wasn’t going to fucking give it up.

His friends seemed taken aback from his sudden anger. Paul’s dark arched eyebrows were furrowed, which always gave an intense look to him.

“Ok, s’ not tourin’ then… We jus’ wanted to talk to ya. We’re worried, see? Ya seem so on edge lately.” George said.

John was still smiling at him expectantly, fucking daring him to say anything. His expression seemed so open, sympathetic, but Paul knew what his damn intentions were. Fucking cunt. Like hell he’d say anything with John there. He cursed his friends for planning this intervention shit, bringing John into it.

“Well. I feel quite fine.” Paul said sharply.

“S’alright. We’re not gonna judge ya. We wanna help.” George said.

The two of them, George and Ringo, looked so fucking sincere. The poor bastards. 

“Jus fucking drop it, alright?” Paul spat “ If I had a _problem_ , I’d handle it, right? So drop it.”

Their worry began to increase, and with it, Paul’s anger. 

Feeling sorry for him, were they? Quite ungrateful, really. They didn’t know the half of what Paul was doing… all for their sake! Say Paul did tell them. They might end up disgusted with him, taking the mindset of the press. Maybe he didn’t know them as well as he thought. He thought he fucking knew John. Maybe Paul was simply a terrible judge of character. 

Maybe they would assume Paul was at fault, seducing John. 

Maybe the rest of them lusted after him after all, wanting a turn for themselves. 

Maybe they’d pity him. They’d feel terrible about it, treat Paul as if he were made of glass, unable to help beyond that. That would only make Paul feel even more so pathetic, emasculated.

Or maybe they just wouldn’t speak to him anymore. 

It was fucking humiliating.

Paul sneered at them. He spoke with cruel amusement.

“Yer all a bunch of presumptuous cunts, y’know that? Deal with yer own fucking issues.” 

Paul’s face fell, glaring at them in resentment. He trailed off.

“Fucking intervention…” 

He grabbed his coat from where he hung it, swiftly walking out of the suite and slamming the door behind him. He was gonna go fuck a bird.

  
  
  
  
  
  


-

  
  
  
  
  
  


And so he did. 

Paul went out to a club without any disguise. He’d always get loads of attention like this, as if he were the second coming or some horseshit. He’d gotten attention before his fame, sure, but never like this. Seemed like having your face in the papers constantly made you irresistible to the public.

Paul got a drink at the bar, not having to pay. His irritation was clear on his face, but birds still flocked to him, showing their excitement.

Paul had to get halfway through his drink before grinning at them, using his famous charm. 

Birds loved to touch him. Christ. Everyone fucking wanted to touch him. They’d touch Paul’s face, hold onto his arm, play with his hair, kiss his cheeks. 

Even fucking men would want to get their hands on him a few drinks in.

Paul had blocked it out, but there was one night before they were well known, some bloke had pinched him on the ass. 

Paul had turned around to face him. The man grinned at first, seeing his pretty face. He had to let his eyes wander for a moment before realizing Paul was _not_ a bird. Paul glared daggers at him, and the man retreated, embarrassed, shock on his face. Drunk asshole.

It was not even that one time either. Paul had his back stroked before, his ass felt up, his hair toyed with. Sometimes they backed off when he turned round, though some were too pissed to notice. Paul needed to tell them off, them only realizing once they heard his deep voice.

It was worse, though less blatant now that he was a celebrity. Touches of disbelief at seeing him, from either gender. Like he was public property. Paul felt like that sometimes.

But it was all worth it in the end. He could have any bird he wanted.

Paul looked over the ones around him. They were all pretty, but he could afford to be picky now.

The redhead, though pretty enough, had this unappealing squeaky voice and annoying giggle. She was out.

He didn’t like how another one of them had an extra pound on or two. Her face was rather plain as well. They all got dressed up when they went out, but Paul could see through that now. He knew which ones were truly a good catch.

He turned his attention to one of the brunettes. Paul preferred blondes, but this one would do. Her hair was long and voluminous, a pleasure to tug at. Her breasts were surprisingly perky for their size, spilling out of her clingy red dress. She had these large blue eyes and long eyelashes. Yes, she would do.

She’d let Paul fuck her. They all would. That’s why they were here. Paul would never waste his time on some broad waiting for marriage. Any broad hoping for a deeper connection was wasting their time. Paul knew damn well what he wanted.

So he turned his attention to the brunette. Paul spoke to her in a deep voice, lidding his eyes. All he had to do was shoot them a look. They all loved his large seductive eyes, his arched eyebrows. It didn’t take much.

Paul was a drink and a half in. One of the other girls he’d disqualified was touching his leg, hand moving dangerously high. Paul didn’t pay her no mind, growing harder at the thought of nailing this blue-eyed broad.

She pressed her full chest against Paul’s flat one. He shuddered, arousal stirring in his gut. His buzzed mind was considering fucking her right here into the seat. 

Instead, he brought his lips to her ear.

“How about we get a room?” He whispered, a low seductive tone. A shiver ran up her spine in anticipation.

The club had rooms just upstairs for staying the night. Fucking yeah.

She hugged his arm, those slender arms around the rough fabric of his suit-coat. They made their way over to the staff, Paul asking for a key in a slurred voice.

Paul jabbed it in the lock, jerking open the door. The bird squealed in excitement. Of course she was excited. She was fucking a rock star.

Paul yanked her by the arm, tossing her on the bed with a soft “poomf”.

Paul’s head was spinning when he landed on top of her, sucking in that little mouth. His arousal strained against his trousers quite painfully. He wanted to be inside this slag as soon as possible.

He tugged at her dress, trying to free those bang-up tits she lured him in with. Paul pulled up her skirt, her wrapping those legs around him.

Once he got them back to his room, Paul was done. He didn’t need to keep his charming attitude, any facade of sweetness. He’d won, and could claim his prize: a nice hot cunt to shove his pecker into.

Her dress was off. Paul grabbed those full breasts, squeezing harshly. Nice and supple they were, sweet pink puffies. She squeaked. Perhaps he’d squeezed too hard. She’d get over it. Paul’s hands were large and strong, calloused by the guitar. The fucking cute one, eh?

Paul took one in his mouth, biting down. Another squeak.

It was so nice and full, like biting into ripe fruit. Paul didn’t understand why John was so fixated on _his_ chest. His weren’t anything like this, he had flat small nipples, and no breasts to speak of. 

The broad yelped again as Paul bit them, so he took her mouth again, shutting her up.

Paul was too dizzy from the liquor to be precise with his movements. He fumbled with his fly, tugging his trousers down to release his erection. The bird watched lavisciously, mouth watering at the prospect of seeing it. He grinned smugly at her, eyes unfocused.

As soon as he got it out, he yanked her smooth soft thighs apart, shoving himself in without warning.

Her high little sounds of excitement only made Paul fuck her harder. Those long legs were wrapped around him, pulling him closer.

The cunt was bitching keen. So wet and hot, pulling him in. He fucked her with enthusiasm, obscene sounds coming resulting from it.

Pleasure built in Paul’s lower back. There was nothing like a wet hot cunt to fuck into. His abdomen buzzed with enjoyment. Every thrust shoved her delicate little body up the duvet. Paul was hard and fast as always, the alcohol making him a bit rougher and careless.

Paul gripped her soft hips, forcing himself deeper. His nails dug into the pliant skin, and she yelped. 

“Shutup” Paul muttered in his deep slurred voice.

Paul was starting to get annoyed with her little noises of discomfort. She should be fucking flattered he was nailing her, out of all the other women. Be more grateful for Chrissake.

The feeling of his building orgasm was giving Paul a strange feeling of unease. It only reminded him of John’s hands on him. Paul felt a cold sweat come over him. 

Those fucking hands, toying with Paul’s prick, touching his body. John made him feel this exact pleasure, even though Paul didn’t fucking want it. He got Paul hard and tossed him off until he got to see Paul fucking cum in front of him. Fucker salivated over him as he did it too.

Mother fucker! Paul wasn’t going to let the degenarate bastard ruin sex for him, for Christ’s sake! Paul was powerless then, but he wasn’t now! He had a broad writhing under him, ready to accept anything he gave her. 

He flipped her body over without warning, plowing her from behind, going even deeper. 

Paul clawed at her body, likely leaving marks, ignoring her little squeaks. _Shutthefuckup_. 

He felt like his dick was melting as he furiously chased his release, heaving breaths out of his pretty parted lips.

Paul bit into her neck, another yelp. He could taste a bit of blood. Christ. Women were so damn fragile.

“Shut the f’up.” Paul muttered again, more firmly. She likely heard him this time. Paul was just irritated. He didn’t want to hear her little complaints. 

He brought his hand down hard on her ass, watching the skin pinken. She squeaked again, the harsh fucking likely aiding it.

Paul wanted to see her face as he came in her. He flipped her back over, pulling her waist closer by the bend of her knee. He wanted to go deeper. There was a layer of sweat on his body, his pale skin slightly pink from the exertion.

Her soft stomach rolled a bit as he manipulated her body, pounding hard into her. Her little triangle of pubic hair was quite enticing. Paul’s was softer and thicker, curling from the condensation.

“Fuckin’ hell” Paul groaned. His vision was blurry, his arousal painful, nearing his desperate release.

She giggled up at him, reaching up to touch his face, legs tight around his waist. Paul’s face was likely dazed, maybe even silly looking to her. His pink lips parted, releasing sounds, unfocused eyes, flushed pale skin. Quite uncharacteristic of how rough he was being with her.

In the back of his mind, the pleasure was still tainted. John’s fucking mouth on him, the fucking hands, pulling his sensitive areas. Fucking Christ! If anything, the alcohol made it worse, as if it were happening right now, reality becoming blurred. Christ! Christ! Christ! 

Paul fucked her even harder, releasing all his anger and frustration. It was so unfair! Why him? Why him?

She gasped and twisted, gripping the duvet under her. _Shut the hell up! Shut the hell up!_

“SHUT THE F’UP!” Paul shrieked at her, as if she were the source of all his troubles.

Her gaze focused, snapping to him, shocked. Paul’s face wasn’t just flushed from the stimulation, but from the anger. His eyebrows were furrowed, his teeth gritted, sweat beading on his forehead. He seethed down at the poor girl.

Paul growled from low in his throat, head pounding. His grip on her legs were so tight it may bruise later. Women were much too fragile.

Paul pushed her legs up roughly, going deeper. The bird craned her head and moaned from the harsh fucking.

“Fuckin’ bitch.” He muttered, still slurred from the alcohol. She could likely hear, but was too preoccupied.

The cunt was so damn wet, clenching around him deliciously. Paul’s breaths were shallow. He was almost there. It was getting excruciating.

He groped at her breast again, squeezing hard. The flesh was so nice in his grip, warm and pliant.  
  
Another wave of anger rushed through him. Paul’s hands moved to her throat, clenching around it.

Her eyes flitted open, gasping at him.

The fucking cute one. Paul wasn’t some fucking choir boy. This broad knew what she was getting into. She would’ve let him fuck her on the table if he wished. All these fucking birds.

He saw them as a conquest, but so did they, another celebrity to cross off their list. It was an ego boost, really. Such a special pretty thing for a rock star to choose them out of all the others. Fucking bullshit. If it wasn’t her, Paul would’ve fucked the second hottest broad to come onto him. 

They all had different faces, different names, but it didn’t matter at this point. Another nice tight cunt to fuck. Paul could have any sort of broad, whether plain or gorgeous, another one would come along. They all fucking blended together to him. 

A few more harsh thrusts, and Paul was cumming, deep inside that quivering organ. Paul shouted and swore in pleasure and anger. His grip tightened as she uselessly pawed at his hands. Yes, he was in control now. He was stronger than her, more powerful than her. 

He could fucking kill her if he wanted, and get away with it too. 

Paul released inside her, making sure not one drop escaped, rocking himself through it. 

His head felt fuzzy, his abdomen filling with warmth. He groaned, his voice getting sweeter and his expression more giddy. His eyes rolled back. Paul felt as if he were on cloud nine. He arched his back and a shiver ran up his hips.

“Ah,” He gasped.

When Paul finished, he quickly let go of her neck as if it burned him. She drew heavy breaths, face pink, chest heaving.

Paul looked away, shoving his dick roughly into his pants, pulling his trousers up, pulling up his fly. He tucked in his shirt, straightening his tie. He huffed angrily, catching his breath. He smoothed down his hair.

Without looking at the broad, Paul stormed out, shutting the door behind him.

She’d have a good story for her little friends.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite an innocent flower is he?


	10. Chapter 10

Paul walked back into the hotel suite.

When he walked to the door, there was John. He looked up at Paul from his newspaper and smiled. Those impish grins John had. It was supposed to be a friendly look, but Paul sure as hell didn’t see it that way. He was smoking a cigarette, and put it out as Paul came in. It seemed that John was waiting for him to return.

Paul hesitated in shutting the door behind him, hands shaky. It was late, but he supposed not so late clubs were closed. There were still people out.

“Where are the lads?” Paul said. He was still a bit buzzed, and his voice came out slightly slurred.

“Out.” 

John kept smiling at him.

Once Paul had stormed off, George and Ringo were less than pleased at his hostile reaction. They were just trying to help him. They lost a bit of their sympathy. Classic Paul. Hardass, control freak Paul. Much too full of himself to accept help, they figured, so why bother?

Paul grimaced. His head was still a bit spacey.

He knew it was bad to be alone with John. He didn’t want anything to happen to him tonight. He just wanted to lie down. The intensity of his violent one night stand still coursed through him, his hands a bit shaky. He was dizzy, angry, a bit nauseous. Mostly tired.

“Where did you go, Paul? You gave us all a fright, storming off like that.”

John was doing that fucking humorous thing he did. Speaking proper-like as a facetious casual dialogue. Little inside joke. Paul didn’t reciprocate.

“Doesn’t matter.” He slurred. “S’none of your business.”

Looking at John’s pleased gremlin face was making him mad.

John stood up. Paul’s body instinctively tensed, his heart rate spiking. John frowned.

“What’s wrong, Paul? You seem a bit on-edge. Out drinkin?”

Paul felt dizzy.

“Yer not me fuckin’ dad.” Paul muttered low in his voice, hostility showing through. “Shut up.”

John made towards him, folded newspaper in hand. Paul backed away, against the door.

“Why’re you bein’ so cold?” John said. “Did I do somethin’?”

John set the newspaper on the entryway table. He placed a gentle hand on Paul’s soft, but trembling chest.

“C’mon, Macca.” His voice was amourous. “I’ve waited up for ya. Let’s go-”

“No! No!” Paul suddenly shouted. The volume surprised even him. It was just his voice, his facial expression didn’t change much.

John stalled at the outburst, his hand ceasing any movement planned.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t-not tonight.” Paul said forcefully, but stumbled over his words. “I’ve gone out and fucked a bird. I’m done for tonight.”

Paul’s gaze drifted behind John, the door to his bedroom. He looked at it lazily.

“Wanna go to bed.” Paul mumbled.

John looked a bit agitated.

“I’m fine with ya fuckin’ birds. Fuck all the birds ya want.” John said “When I feel like fucking a bird, you can go off an’ do yer fucking thing, don’t fucking care.”

John jabbed a finger at the bassist, accentuating his words.

“But the night’s I want to have _ya_ , I’ll fuckin have ya. Understand, _Macca_?”

The minute the words left John’s mouth, Paul gave a loud, lengthy cry of frustration, tossing his head back.

“Fuck that!” Paul cried nonsensically. His voice was miserable and exasperated. “Fucking _hell,_ cunt!”

The liquor made his voice waver with all the emotion. He was so done with it all, not focusing on placating John.

“Why don’t ya put a fuckin’ _leash_ on my knob as well? I’m yer fuckin _whore_ , aren’t I? Yer goddamn fucktoy!”

Paul’s voice was screetchy. He didn’t care if he sounded undignified. He didn’t care about being fucking _attractive_ right now.

“ _I hate it_! _I hate it_!” He blabbered nonsensically. 

Paul’s hands tangled in his hair. He didn’t know where the outburst was coming from. He had been suppressing it well enough earlier. It all wore down on him, every time John groped at him, tugged at his knob. The constant mind games. The person he once considered his closest confidant was sexually _fixated_ on him. John goddamn _fucked_ him, like a fucking bird.

Even worse was the need to constantly act like nothing was _wrong._ Paul had to perform, and go to press conferences, attend televised interviews, write new music. There was talk of a feature film even. 

All that was a lot of pressure before, but he had his _friends_ to lean on. That was keeping him fucking sane. Now he didn’t have even a second to relax. From the moment he woke up to the moment he fell asleep. He was having _nightmares_ now too. Fucking _hell_.

Paul was sick of it. He was trying to deal with it, but it was constant hell. Paul was in hell.

John stepped closer, and Paul swung at him in desperation. John dodged it easily, perturbed look on his face. Paul wasn’t being quite precise with his movements.

“Paul, Paul, calm down. Please.”

John was speaking to him, trying to make his voice gentle, de-escalate the situation. Paul had flinched, expecting a more violent response to the rejection.

“You’re not a fucktoy to me.” John said. “Don’t say that. You’re my friend, Paul.”

His voice sounded concerned, genuine. Fucking mad. What did John think was even going on? Like he wasn’t putting Paul through all of this.

Paul’s face felt hot, his eyes dizzy. He wasn’t one to get emotional, but everything combined with the liquor was getting to him. Additionally, the relief from being all prepared for a confrontation. His eyes stung and his nose burnt as tears began to prick at his eyes.

“Ugh-” Paul groaned in his deep voice. He felt sick. His vision drifted, ignoring John in front of him, mind wandering. He wanted to sleep.

“C’mon, let's get you to bed, yeah?”

Paul’s heart rate spiked, losing the momentary relief. His body shot up, stiffening. No, no, no, no no, no.

He frantically shook his head, his jaw falling slack. Paul’s breaths came out short and panicked, wheezing even. He couldn’t breathe. John was going to fuck him again. Paul didn’t want to. He didn’t want to. He felt sick, as if he was going to vomit.

“Don’t do this to’me. Please, don’t do this to me. Please John’ _please_.” Paul’s voice began to get more slurred from his nausea and emotions, nasally. His fingers were trembling.

John winced.

“M’not gonna fuck ya. Relax, Paul. Christ.” He said wearily. “Obviously yer not in the right state of mind, drunk and actin’ this way. I’m not fuckin’ that ‘horrible y’know.”

Hearing the words, relief washed over Paul again, causing him to release a shaky exhale. Trembles went through his body as the stiffness dissipated. A tear ran down his cheek.

“Thank’ya. Thank’ya.” Paul mumbled incoherently through his trembling lips. The tears from earlier were collecting on his upper eyelashes. His entire body shook.

“Christ, Paul. Yer a mess.’

Paul only drew shaky breaths, staring off. When John took his wrist, Paul followed numbly. John said he wouldn’t fuck him. John wasn’t lying. He sounded truthful. Why would John bother lying to him. It wasn’t as if Paul could put up much of a fight.

John sat him on the bed. Paul groaned at the mattress under him. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted John to let him sleep.

A sharp wave of panic shot through him as John’s hands moved to his shirt buttons.

“No, no!” Paul slurred in a high pitched desperate voice. His heart began to beat quickly again. “No, no, John. You said you wouldn’t! _You said you wouldn’t!_ ”

His voice increased in pitch. The begging didn’t make him feel particularly masculine, but Paul didn’t care.

His eyes felt heavy, his tongue felt heavy, but the adrenaline kicked in. He wanted to get away. He didn’t want this. His hands started to shake again. He gave a high pitched cry, blurry eyes burning once again.

John winced, stopping his hands.

“M’not gonna-” John began. “....you reek of booze and perfume. Christ, man, ya need a bath. Not gonna tonight. Promise.”

Paul kept himself still, though whimpered and shuddered, not completely trustful. He was already on edge around John, but it would be worse unclothed.

Paul allowed himself to be disrobed. He kept his knees together, trying to maintain some dignity. John held Paul’s delicate wrists up, clasped together in his hands.

“What a beauty you are, Paul.” He grinned. “Such a gentle face.”

Paul’s heart rate shot up. No, no. 

John’s grin was supposed to come off as friendly or reassuring, but Paul could only be afraid of it now. He’d grin his stupid seemingly genuine smiles as he lay his hands all over Paul. Seeing it put dread into his core. There was a time where those same smiles were comforting, a comraderly gesture. They were forever tainted for him now.

What’s more, was the horror of being complimented like this. Paul knew what it led to. All John could tell him was how _pretty_ he was. How _lovely_ he was. Paul didn’t fucking care! He didn’t want John to think he was _pretty_ , or _sexy_ , or _fuckable_! He was fucking naked in front of him.

Paul must’ve not hid the horror in his expression. John frowned.

“M’just-” He said. “Christ, Paul, don’t you trust me?”

Paul didn’t respond, just kept looking at him with fear. His heart kept racing. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. He could never relax when he was exposed to John. He never knew what to expect. How did he know John wouldn’t change his mind? Too seduced by aspects Paul couldn’t fucking _control_?

Paul’s lips stretched over his teeth. He drew a shaky breath, nearly whining. It wasn’t dignified, but Paul was too sloshed to care.

That gave John his answer.

His face fell a bit.

“C’mon.” 

John pulled Paul to his feet, guiding him to the connected bath. John filled the bathtub with warm water, then coaxed Paul into it.

The warm liquid engulfed his body. The sharp change of temperature made Paul’s eyesight blur. It was a relief on his sore muscles and the layer of filth that had accumulated on his skin. Paul shuddered. His head still spun. He must’ve drank more than he thought.

“There you are.” John said. “Better, Paul?”

Paul parted his lips, eyelids heavy. The water was very soothing.

John wet a washcloth in the soapy water. He reached into the tub, raising Paul’s arm. He gently scrubbed the washcloth against his skin, massaging the tension from Paul’s sore muscles.

Paul’s eyes were nearly shut, gaze nowhere in particular through long eyelashes. 

Despite it all, the touch was so relaxing. Being fussed over like this. It was a gentle touch.

Paul felt a constant pressure, with the group, with all the performing and the recording. He never got a moment to catch his breath. It seemed ages that somebody took care of him in this sort of way. With girls, he would fuck them, sometimes they’d ride him, but they didn’t offer this sort of comfort. His family was back home, but Paul was a grown man now. No need to fuss over him. 

Sometimes he wished he could go back to his younger years. No need to think about the future, no responsibilities. His needs were all met (for the most part anyway). There was the war and all, government housing, but when you’re that young you didn’t have anything to compare it to.

Paul let out a shaky breath he’d been holding. Tears began to run freely from his eyes. Not from misery, but from comfort. He wasn’t sobbing, his chest wasn’t heaving violently. He missed this. Paul wanted comfort more than anything. His chest buzzed with sensation. He was so tired and overwhelmed.

“Shh, Paul.”

Paul turned to him. John was still cleaning his arms, the dark hairs there, gradually moving to his shoulders. They were sore.

Paul’s eyes fell shut. Through the much needed comfort, there was still the lingering unease of the familiarity of John’s presence, those same hands touching him. 

Paul tried to tune that aspect out. It was somebody else. He was a kid again, being bathed. Not a worry in his head. Everybody else tended to his needs. Paul didn’t need to think about anything. He let his mind go blank.

Paul’s eyes opened in discomfort a fraction as the touches got lower. His eyes shifted to John.

John grimaced, attempting to be gentler as he moved down Paul’s chest. Paul held his breath instinctively.

“M’not gonna try anything.” John muttered

Paul winced from the noise, shutting his eyes.

John sighed. The washcloth moved lower, gently cleaning Paul’s soft stomach as he tensed up.

Paul whimpered as John reached his unaroused member.

“Ya fucked a bird didn’t ya? We gotta get that area clean, y’know.” John chuckled. 

Paul didn’t reciprocate, slinking lower into himself.

John tried to be gentle with the sensitive area, only wipe off the surface uncleanliness. Paul kept completely still, hands gripping the sides of the basin.

“See?” All done.” John said.

Paul let out the shuddering breath he was holding. John continued to his legs. He gently cleaned the soft thick hair of Paul’s thighs. Paul gritted his teeth at the sensitive areas, the creases of his ass.

John spent extra time massaging Paul’s thighs, then moved to his calves, making sure to remove the soreness and tension. Having been on edge for the better part of the day, his whole body felt weary. The attention to his leg muscles and hot water soothed him. 

John got to his feet, and began massaging those as well, even foregoing the washcloth. Paul really needed it. His high arches made it rather painful to be standing or walking for long periods of time. John massaged the pads of it, kneading into the arches. Paul’s hair stood on end from the relief.

Paul gave an involuntary moan. A quiet one, escaping low through his pretty parted lips. His eyes shot open in mortification, just to see John grinning at him salaciously.

“Nice?”

Paul felt like he would gag. He sunk into himself, humiliation on his face. This was all so fucking humiliating. John was fucking _bathing_ him. The ridiculosity of the situation finally hit him. His head was still spinning. It was hard to think too hard about it. He was tired and still buzzed.

“You’ve got very lovely feet, Paul.” John mused. “So delicate and soft. Such pretty arches. They’re larger, but very lovely.”

Paul felt sickened. Was John taking the piss out of him? 

John took his time. A suspicious amount, as if it was pleasuring him as well as Paul. A foot massage would’ve been enjoyable in any other context, but this was such a strange situation. It all felt out of place. 

John didn’t even do this kind of thing for the girl’s he’d gone steady with, he was never this cloying. Not a sentimentalist, him. Paul felt like some pampered housewife, her partner wrapped sound her finger. It was humiliating. Out of place. Nothing felt quite real anymore.

“They must hurt, you push yourself too hard…”

John was speaking to him in that diminutively sweet tone again. It never had its desired effect. It just made Paul feel pathetic.

The tension ebbed out of them, which Paul was grateful for. 

The water was getting lukewarm.

His body felt relaxed, sleep yearning to overtake his body. Paul felt clean and soothed.

Paul’s face was held, and he closed his eyes upon contact. Despite himself, Paul leant into it. It was warm from the bathwater. He needed comfort so badly, some relief. He was tired. 

“You ought to have some rest.”

Paul’s eyelids trembled. He wanted to go to sleep.

John helped him out, running the soft towel over him. John’s touches lingered on his body, making Paul’s skin crawl. At times like these, he could never forget John’s true intentions. He wasn’t just doing Paul a kindness, bathing his drunk friend, impartial to his nudity. John was eating him with his eyes, the desire clear in them as they moved over Paul’s soft curves.

John helped him to the bed. Paul pulled the duvet over him, shielding his body, as well as warming it. 

John was still sitting on the edge, making the mattress dip. He looked down at Paul with a blank expression. Paul looked back at him, anger ebbing into his mind again. 

“What’re ya doing.” Paul slurred, voice thick with exhaustion, dripping with contempt. “Don’t want ya here. Go.”

John reached out to him and Paul froze. Oh no.

John took a bit of Paul’s soft hair between his fingers, toying with it. Paul gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tight.

John began to stroke more of his hair. The sensation itself was pleasant. At least John wasn’t hurting him.

Paul didn’t care. He was so tired, so desperate for gentle touches. The alcohol and weariness pulled him into unconsciousness.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has a foot fetish. I do not.


	11. Chapter 11

It had been two months since the night John had fucked him.

Paul would still go out with his bandmates. Whether it was the after-party for a show, or just a night out at the clubs, he’d still get drunk and take birds as always. 

The only difference was that, ever so often, John would decide Paul was what he wanted that night.

It was a on his fucking whims. Paul could be enjoying himself, pursuing some bird, but once John set eyes on him, it was all over.

-

Paul had a sure thing one night. She was a bit buzzed (so was he) but that only made her desire for him more obvious. She was blonde, and Paul loved blondes. Just like Bridgette Bardot.

Paul’s eyes scanned her body. Her tits weren’t as banging as Bridgette’s, but she had better teeth. She looked rather young, but as long as she wasn’t too innocent, she’d do just fine. 

Paul knew some broads bought into their saccharine image, misinterpreting his intentions. It was a drag explaining to them that a shag was a shag, and he wasn’t interested in them romantically. Paul already had a girl for chrissake. They should’ve known what they were getting into.

He spoke to her on the club floor. Paul’s eyes were conveying a very clear message. It was obvious what he wanted. They flitted over her nicely shaped body, these new styles showing more skin.

Very few women could resist his dark gentle eyes (now plastered all over the papers) thick with lust. The words nearly left his lips, the words he used every single time without fail, deep and sweet as honey in his voice: “Why don’t we get out of here?”

If the club or bar had lodging, that’s where Paul would take them. A lot of them did. Sometimes, he would just push them against the wall, find a dark corner where they wouldn’t be interrupted.

Then, a fucking hand. On Paul’s lower back.

Paul’s face fell. It fell hard. 

  
He knew exactly what it meant. All the suavity and confidence Paul was laying on the bird disappeared in an instant.

“Terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I’ve gotta take McCartney off ya a moment.”

A smug fucking voice.

Paul’s heart sunk. His whole chest sunk. He was already a few pints in. Paul’s dread was never hid very well in the alcohol’s stupor. The misery would flash across his face the second that damned hand made contact.

Sometimes it would be a hand on his shoulder, sometimes on his back. John would always touch him, unable to hold back a moment longer. Sometimes John couldn’t be arsed to even make an excuse, simply, wordlessly, tugging Paul away by the arm.

If the club or bar had lodging, that’s where John would take him. A lot of them did. Sometimes, John would just push him against the wall, find a dark corner where they wouldn’t be interrupted.

Paul hated it. He hated feeling like one of John’s fucking broads. Whenever he decided Paul was the best option in the club, or simply _wanted_ to fuck him that night. Paul did feel like his fucking plaything, as if he didn’t have a will of his own. It only mattered what _John_ wanted at the moment, whether it be a girl, or to have Paul again.

Paul’s head would spin, his lighthearted buzz becoming a bad one. Paul was a happy drunk, an excited one, amorous. He wasn’t a sad drunk.

The alcohol seemed to magnify his sadness, knowing that lashing out was useless.

It seemed that this club had no rooms available, thus to a dark corner he was led. Many clubs had them, and the implication was known. They likely wouldn’t be disturbed, the others in the club too preoccupied by their own conquests to mess with another’s.

Paul was pushed up against the wall roughly. John seemed to be more callous whilst inebriated, but no less taken by him, speaking amorously.

His head would spin. John would fuck him, or rut against him, or even just get Paul to cum for his own enjoyment, John’s nasty rough hands on him. Sometimes, in the darkness, a tear would roll down his cheek.

It was great. John could now have Paul whenever he wanted, wherever. Paul would go along with it too. John loved the spontaneity, just like with birds. He was always excited to get his hands on Paul.

He preferred to find a room, let Paul rest his pretty body as John pleased him, but he wasn’t always so lucky. 

He still took good care of Paul, letting him relax in his hands, succumb to the pleasure.

Paul was so lovely, always so lovely. When he wasn’t putting up a struggle that is. That reminded John of his stubbornness and disagreeability. It didn’t mesh well with his angel face. Paul was essentially an angel in appearance. John couldn’t find a physical flaw on him.

At times, John wondered if Paul was made just for him. Paul had come to _him_ after all, that first day, all those years ago. John remembered it well.

The first thought John had upon laying eyes on him was that Paul looked like Elvis. Paul’s hair was quaffed, his cheeks a bit chubby, droopy eyes. In all honesty, John thought it silly. A fourteen year old kid coming to him, talking about music. John was nearly seventeen, therefore smarter and better. Additionally, Paul was dressed much too proper. Did mother still pick out his clothes. He laughed at the thought of Paul wanting to join him.

Paul borrowed one of John’s mate’s guitars, then immediately turned it backwards. He wanted to laugh, then Paul began to play it. Buddy Holly songs, Little Richard, Elvis. That had caught his attention.

In hindsight, thank god it did.

Christ. He’d never thought Paul would grow up to be _this_. John didn’t remember the moment he had eyes for Paul. It was very very gradual. He didn’t recognize or acknowledge it at first. John didn’t dig blokes. Didn’t care for them. He knew that much. But Paul...he was just...the way he was.

He didn’t dig Paul because he _looked_ like a girl. Sure, Paul had his feminine characteristics he’d gotten flack for, from the other rockers to the press today. But Paul couldn’t pass for a woman, even his face, despite the delicate features. It wasn’t that. Paul was just...a beauty. John didn’t _want_ him to be a girl.

Every day since they’d met, John saw his beauty grow.

When Paul began wearing his hair in the French style, that’s when it finally became clear to him. Today it was known as their Beatle cut, or perhaps the “mop-top” style, but before then it was French, those French artists letting their bangs grow.

Paul’s dark hair growing longer must’ve bridged the cognitive dissonance in John’s mind. He had to make the connection between his gravitation to Paul and his sexual desire for women. It didn’t _make_ Paul a woman, but it finally made him understand.

It was October of 1961. For his 21st birthday, his aunt had given him the large sum of £500. He’d taken a spur of the moment trip to Paris...taking Paul along.

A friend of theirs Jurgen, had that hairstyle. On a whim, John and Paul had asked him to give them that comb over look. They were on holiday, what the hell.

John had gotten his hair done first, Paul second. John watched humorously as Jurgen did it, Paul and him getting a kick out of it.

Then Jurgen took the cape off him, and Paul looked him right in the eye, no ulterior motives on his end.

“What do ya think?”

Paul’s tone was facetious. They always had layers of irony whenever they spoke to each other. They all did. That’s how they spoke.

Paul had his dark hair combed into that style, some birds having that length now. Paul had on a cocky look, dark eyes looking right at him, deep lovely voice.

All of this combined, on holiday with Paul, it just snapped inside of him. Fucking hell. Paul was a tart. A fucking good one at that. Fucking hell. It grated on him like sandpaper to the junk.

Paul wasn’t a scrawny little thing anymore. His limbs were long, they were shapely. His facial features alone drove John mad.

Paul’s face was no longer podgy. He still had that juvenile softness, adding to his femininity, but it’d evened out, his eyes getting darker. 

Paul had lines by his nose, underneath his eyes, beside his lips. When the light hit his face, the curves of the softness were apparent, soft and pale, pink in the cold. Paul didn’t have much of a sharp jawline, his features all very gentle.

His lips were delicate, like two petals meeting, pink and full. Paul parted them in thought, or deeply focused on his playing, his two front teeth showing. His cupid’s bow was prominent, sloping sweetly into his small upturned nose. Such a cute little neb too. 

Though Paul’s features were gentle, his eyes could become intense if he wanted to. They were downward-sloped, lidded, with long dark eyelashes and arched eyebrows. The new fringe framed them, framed his entire face perfectly. When Paul knit his eyebrows, little lines appeared on his procerus. He had a brow ridge, but John didn’t care much. The beauty of those eyes overshadowing it. Paul wasn’t a woman, and didn’t need to be.

He’d gone about Paris with him the rest of the day. The October chill was evident, pinkening Paul’s soft cheeks, his ears too. They looked like candies, pink and cute, poking out of that dark hair. When his head was turned away from John, he could see the curve of Paul’s cheek, the way his eyelashes curled upwards. Even the shape of Paul’s head enticed him.

Paul’s body too. He’d grown into himself immaculately. His legs were curved nicely, and those goddamned hips. Why the hell did they look like that? Paul was adequately dressed for the cold, but the way he _moved_ was so graceful. John found himself watching Paul’s legs, his back, as he walked. There was a curve that ran from his shoulder blades to...lower.

The dark clothing added to Paul’s gentle appearance. The dark woolen materials and knit scarf made Paul’s lovely pale face stand out, dark eyes appearing on it. Even with John’s shitty eyesight he could see that. 

John got his final look at him that night.

Paul had fallen asleep before him in their hotel room, and John could finally allow himself to stare. He put on his glasses, and just... _looked_ at him.

He looked at Paul that night, not laying a hand on him, for a good long while.

John might not have realized it until then, but it didn’t come out of nowhere. This was simply the breaking point.

As he looked at Paul, lust soon made itself known.

But it was more than that. John knew what lust was. He’d find a girl at a pub, want to fuck her, then do so. All sorts of women. He loved fucking women. He knew that much. He didn’t need a shove, a nice looking broad was a nice looking broad. 

Paul wasn’t just that. A man good enough to pass for a broad. Fuckable if no other option presented itself. Paul was a beauty. No way around it. His beauty tore right into the core of John’s being.

It it was a hole to fuck John wanted, he’d find a broad. They were always good for a shag. That wasn’t what Paul was. He was a masterpiece, right there in front of him. He wanted to savor Paul. He wanted to taste every inch of his body, hear his sounds. Christ. That voice of his. 

With the broads, _John_ wanted to get off. With Paul, he wanted to _see_ him get off. John saw bits and pieces of it, tucked away in those cramped little rooms. It was inevitable. He’d see the silhouette of Paul’s body in the dark, pounding away at some working girl, and duck out. Sometimes he’d cut up their discarded clothes for a gag.

Those sounds he made...Christ. John had tuned it out, but now it came back to him at full force. Paul was likely soft and warm to the touch. Those thighs would be heaven in his grip. He wanted to see if those petal lips felt as good as they looked.

_Fucking hell_ He’d thought. _This isn’t good._

How would he even _fuck_ Paul? John made a face. Would he have to… go up bum? The thought put him off. Going inside of him _there_ , his _knob_ hanging above it like a fucking Christmas ornament. That thought turned him off as well. A fucking knob. 

What the hell was John gonna do with a knob? The thought of another man’s throbber in his hand...all pink and swollen obscenely...Paul’s deep (albeit sweet) masculine sounds. The logistics made no sense.

John avoided the thought, but he knew touching Paul gave him a thill. There were places John _could_ touch him without arousing suspicion. A touch on Paul’s back whilst walking behind him could be a “hurry up.” Rough touches, playful jabs were also on the table. 

If John messed his hair to annoy him, a push to his forehead, a yank of his arm, it’d simply be horseplay. Paul got used to it, John’s “gags.” He couldn’t see any further intent behind them, how a rush went through John’s when placing a hand on that soft body.

That was three years back. It only got worse. Paul’s fucking body, that fucking face. Those little touches only made John want more. When the lad bent over, John wanted nothing more than to bring a hand down on that ass. He wanted to grab those full hips and just… what?

Paul got even more irresistible with every passing day.

That was the past. John smiled. He had Paul now. He had Paul anyway he wanted. Paul went along with it. He had to.

John did love his friend, but he craved him in equal part, in a way Paul likely didn’t understand. John’s life was heaven now. If only Paul could understand.

In that shady corner of the club, John took those petal lips in his. His chest buzzed with the pleasure and the liquor. They were soft and firm, and moist in the center... Christ they were delicious. Paul shivered as he was pushed to the wall. Absolutely beautiful. Beautiful.

John’s hand took in that body, those soft sides, Paul’s lovely curves. He gripped Paul’s chest, massaging the sides of it. Paul was wearing the usual suit ensemble they wore, a thin dress shirt, thicker suitcoat, the trousers that began at the dip of his hips.

Paul’s mouth was addicting. John could taste the alcohol in his breath. They’d both been drinking.

John’s hands found Paul’s hips, squeezing the meat of it, the fullness, his rear. His thumbs curled around his inner thighs, dangerously close to his groin. John wasn’t gentle per se, but his touches were fueled by passion, his hunger for Paul, rather than carelessness or disregard.

John brought a rough hand to where Paul’s trousers stretched to accommodate that sexual characteristic. Paul gave a delicious whine at the contact. So sensitive, that area. John’s hand moved over it, gently squeezing. Paul was heavy, but with the assistance of the wall, John was able to lift him, if only a slight amount. Have power over him.

John pulled back a fraction, looking at Paul’s lovely face in the dark. 

It was scrunched up adorably, his full cheeks bunching up. His eyes were shut tight, eyelashes resting on pale skin, his dark perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowing. John had mussed up his lovely dark hair from the rough touches. A slight 5 o’clock shadow was beginning to form. In all honesty, John never minded it. It was simply a characteristic Paul had, separate from masculinity or femininity. So long as he never grew a thick beard, John would likely not care.

Paul was hard. It didn’t take a lot. John smiled at him. He began to focus on it more, stroking the length through his trousers, tracing the lovely shape of it. Paul’s breaths became shakier, his legs trembling.

Paul was adorable like this, weak against the wall, in John’s hold. Paul was taller than him, despite being more slender. A single centimeter held over John’s head. But now, it _felt_ like Paul was smaller than him, weaker than him, small and demure. Rather Paul not have his strength, John enjoyed that Paul _was_ strong enough to fight him off. It was all the more gratifying that Paul was _allowing_ this. _Accepting_ John. It filled his heart with warmth.

John kissed the left side of Paul’s neck, breathing in the scent. Paul’s body was pressed tight to his, and John could feel his heartbeat and warmth, the soft firmness of his fat and tone. John loved the space Paul took up. He could hold him tight, not worrying about hurting a fragile body. 

Paul’s skin was slightly damp, the liquor, the condensation and energy from the club on him. His neck was stubbly, little dark dots, damp, his thick neck. John could see his Adam's apple move with his breaths. So endearing.

John whispered sweet things into Paul’s ear as he kept palming him. He never got too soft with it, but there were things Paul needed to know.

John’s right hand moved to Paul’s fly, undoing it blindly, freeing Paul’s delicious length from its constraints. It always felt so nice against his palm, soft delicate skin covering something so hard and desperate. He squeezed gently, feeling its give, Paul’s subtle cry.

John kissed the side of Paul’s face, nipping at his seashell ear. He tried not to leave too many marks on Paul, with them being constantly photographed, planned or otherwise. There was no distinction between marks John left, or a bird’s, but it wasn’t good for their image. They were good boys who waited for marriage. They wanted to hold your _hand_.

“Make those sounds, Paul. Want to hear it.” He grumbled, lips grazing Paul’s cheek, hot breaths landing there.

Paul bowed his head. His mouth was slack, taking shaky breaths. John took hold of Paul’s right hand, raising it up, pressing it to the wall. He linked his fingers between Paul’s relatively delicate ones, squeezing tightly. Paul didn’t reciprocate.

Paul’s arousal was heated in his hand, clearly alive, Paul’s heartbeat coursing through it. John was moving it slowly. He felt a hot trickle of fluid move from Paul’s slit, over his fingers.

John removed his hand. Still pressed against Paul, he brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting the ambrosial fluid. Paul was looking at him in disgust, bewilderment. 

John caught his eyes and smiled wide. 

“Come now, Macca.” He said adoringly, words dripping from his lips. “You want a taste?”

John grabbed Paul’s jaw, pressure on the sides, forcing that pretty mouth open. He pushed in his fingers as Paul recoiled, tensing his body up and wrapping his hands around John’s wrist. He let out an uncomfortable gag.

Something stirred inside John. Hunger. He pressed onto Paul’s wet little tongue, making him make endearing gulping noises as he gagged on it, Paul’s eyes blurry. He smiled, before retreating it, his other hand moving down, caressing Paul’s neck. Paul’s face burned, he coughed.

John forced Paul’s mouth back open, this time taking it, licking deep, invading each little crevice.

Paul made a noise, his body tense. John kissed him deeper, slower and more passionate. Paul’s shoulders rose, hands braced against John’s arms. An uncomfortable shudder went through him.

Paul’s body was still pressed tight to his. He could feel Paul’s erection press against his clothed navel. Such a sweet little pecker. John’s other hand found Paul’s hip, squeezing lingeringly. Paul whined.

“Macca, Macca…” John groaned into his mouth, coming slightly garbled. He kissed it over and over. John adored the nickname. It fit Paul quite well.

The name _Paul_ had also become distorted in his head. It felt more feminine, a gentler word. No harsh consonants, brittle cut-off syllables, a soft noise that came from the mouth. The sharp “p”, then the rest a soft breath. It suit him so well.

John loved to take him from the front, see his pretty face so close. It was his favorite. Unfortunately, the logistics were difficult. Paul didn’t exactly have a skirt to push up, knickers he could slide to the side. John would need to remove Paul’s shoes and trousers completely, Paul would need to wrap his legs around him as John pressed him to the wall. A shot of excitement ran through him at the thought. Perhaps another time, in private...

John kissed that sweet mouth once more, savoring it, then ran his eyes over those features one more time, memorizing them. 

Paul looked back at him emptily, looking through him. It was as if Paul were imaging himself somewhere else, anywhere but the present moment. It made John sad. Why did something that gave John such immeasurable pleasure and warmth made Paul in equal parts miserable? 

It didn’t make sense. John wasn’t hurting him. John was pleasuring him. He’d make Paul release his sweet fluids, such sweet noises, the orgasm coursing through that beautiful body, the shivers running throughout it. He knew Paul felt good.

Was it him? Was he so repulsive that Paul wouldn’t accept him without the threats or the coercion? Why? It fucking hurt at times. 

John turned him around and Paul whimpered. It was dread. Simply that. He knew what would come next. John spoke gently into his friend’s ear, trying to provide some comfort.

“S’alright, Macca. C’mon, it’ll feel nice for ya. Always does, doesn’t it? C’mon lovely…”

John’s hand was wrapped around him, gently holding Paul’s hard-on. John had got him to that point. _He_ did. Not that blonde broad Paul was with before. Young little thing. She didn’t know Paul the way he did. John knew his fairer comrade inside and out, every flaw, every little pleasurable spot. Paul could fuck her, but she’d never _take care_ of him the way John did. John _adored_ Paul in a way she couldn't hope to, imperfections and all. 

John tugged the trousers lower. This always seemed to make Paul the most desolate, humiliated, so John did it with care. Perhaps it made Paul feel like a woman, getting pushed against a wall, clothing being moved out of the way for access. John shushed him, trying to make this step better. Paul bowed his head, cheek pressed against the wall, eyes strained. He always did look so sweet.

For the very reason of fucking Paul spontaneously, John carried a small amount of lubrication in his suit pocket. He knew Paul would be hurt without it. He made sure Paul was stretched out sufficiently as well, able to accommodate him. Inflicting physical pain was the last thing John needed. Paul was worked up enough from the very idea of being fucked. John always tried to be as kind as possible. Paul never fucking appreciated it. 

It pissed him off in a way. Didn’t Paul know it could be much worse for him? He was lucky John cared so much. If it wasn’t John, it was quite likely anybody else in his position, close proximity to Paul, would crave him also. They might not be as kind.

John held Paul tightly from beneath the arms, pressing their bodies closer. John was filled with warmth and adoration for the gentle man during these times, so near to him. John whispered praise and affirmation as he entered him. Paul’s breath shuddered, he whined. John held him tighter.

There was nothing on heaven and earth quite like this. It was always so wonderful, a perfect sensation. If John didn’t like fucking birds so much, he’d be glad to fuck Paul every single day, every single night. The feeling alone couldn’t compare.

It was _Paul_ too. He couldn’t get enough of Paul. John wanted him so badly every time his eyes landed on the beautiful creature. Dammit. John was fucking mad. He was glad to be.

John always began slow. He was always in awe, savoring Paul. John never remembered how good it even was, unable to capture a sensation like this in memory. 

As it went on, the passions became too much, and he reverted to his usual rough style, especially under the haze of liquor. Paul was so sweet as he trembled against the wall, knees weakening, his head tilting forward. He’d brace himself on his forearms, or have his palms flat against the wall. His inhibitions were lowered when drunk, more honest with his reactions. Paul would be loud, delightfully loud and obscene. Though the club’s sounds were slightly distant, it drowned out any of their noises, Paul’s sweet cries only for John to hear.

Certainly, it would be a scandal if they were caught. John could imagine. Lennon caught balls deep in McCartney, plastered all over the papers. Lennon-McCartney indeed. It wasn’t very likely however. John wouldn’t take the risk if it were. It was past midnight, and everybody was pissed, either fucking (or trying to fuck) each other. 

Paul would likely take the brunt of it even, an easy target with his pretty face and feminine mannerisms. The press loved taking the piss on that. They’d assume Paul was the one who wanted it. Tempted John away from his godly values.

John would stand by him if that happened at the very least. If it destroyed Paul’s career, he’d always have a place in John’s home. John could care for him. The wife might not like that though. John frowned.

They wouldn’t be caught. John would make sure of it.

He nuzzled his head into Paul’s warm shoulder, breathing him in, his hot breaths leaving dampness. Maybe it was soft to do so. It felt so nice. Christ, John was buried to the hilt in his fucking best mate, he could be fucking soft if he wanted to.

John felt him up, his left hand running up Paul’s forearm, pressed to the wall. It was masculine, thick and strong, still delicate and lovely in John’s hold. He lay his hand on top of Paul’s again, curling his fingers around it, holding it tight from the back. Paul had such lovely hands. John wondered what they’d look touching him...curled around his length…

The mental image gave such a rush through him that John had to shut his eyes tight and count back from ten. The lovely _delicate_ hand on his member, pleasuring it. Paul’s hands were larger than a woman’s, but smaller and more slender than his. It was softer, despite the hair and calluses. Paul had short little fingers, but delicate knuckles. His fingers were slender and pale, pink in the cold. They were more often than not warm, insulating heat well.

So many broads had frail little hands, always cold, brittle and uncomfortable when they tried to toss him off. If by some grace of God, Paul wanted to, he could give him the most pleasurable handie of his life. Not just those hands, but also _him_. That pretty face, looking up at John. Perhaps a sweet little smile, bunched up cheeks, or perhaps the lustful, dark look he gave the women he pursued. Genuine desire from Paul, coaxing it out of him with those gentle hands, would likely be enough for John to blow his load immediately.

How would he even get Paul to do it? John wondered. He could threaten him, as much as he hated to. That’s the only thing that seemed to work. He could say he’d expose Paul, but John didn’t want to do that anyhow. He was already manipulating Paul in this whole situation. He was forcing him to do it to keep the peace in the group, keep his position. Poor thing. If only Paul didn’t feel the need to suffer. This didn’t need to be a struggle for him!

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest at the thought of Paul _going down_ on him. His eyes shot open, and buried his nose in Paul’s hair, trying to ground himself in reality. He breathed it in, the heated condensation coming from the dark mass of it. Delicious.

Those fucking eyes looking up at him, _Christ,_ a lustful, cocky expression. Those fucking _lips_ around his shaft. He definitely wouldn’t be able to keep it in, cumming the second they made contact with his head. It would be rather embarrassing how fast he’d end up releasing.

Paul’s mouth was delicious enough on his, John could only imagine where it’d feel elsewhere. Hot, moist, and delicious, those fucking hips. Paul would groan around him, deep dark voice, sweet as honey. His pretty pink tongue would stick out, pressing against his needy heat. The mop of soft dark hair. John could tangle his hand in it, push him deeper, make Paul moan.

John remembered cumming on Paul’s face that first night. John still hadn’t cum on him anywhere. He knew Paul would be beyond mortified, it happening while conscious. He’d feel defiled and humiliated. John hadn’t told him about it.

But when Paul was sleeping so sweetly, a beautiful dreamer, his lips slightly parted. The hot spurts landing on his face was more gratifying than anything else John had felt up to that point.

What if Paul took his release in his mouth? Eyes rolling back as John came deep in his throat. John would be sure to show his gratitude. He’d show it quite well. He’d give Paul all the pleasure he could withstand, words not being enough to describe what Paul does to him. He would give everything he had and more to Paul. Why the hell was he being so difficult?

John gripped hard at Paul’s lovely hips. Paul’s bare skin was heavenly and soft, firm against his fingers. His fingers were trembling at all the sensation, it was so much. He still kept himself pressed hard to Paul, leaning forward, feeling his body. He went deeper, even deeper into him, his voice becoming less coherent, breathing nonsensical praises into Paul’s seashell ear.

It all became too much. It was so nice inside Paul, hot and tight and sucking him in deeper, closing tighter around him. John wanted to be closer, even closer, but he was as close as he could get. He wanted to be completely consumed by Paul, and this was the closest he could get to it, his head blank, the feeling of Paul’s body, the connection to him, his scent, Paul’s sweet voice overtaking his whole being.

It felt heavenly, the satisfaction of release coursing through his entire body, Paul warm against him. He made sure to expel every drop exactly where it belonged. He groaned and sighed against Paul’s neck, his teeth gritted. Paul’s hair continued further down his neck than a girl’s would, sweet and dark, brushing warm against his face. He held Paul so tightly.

John was very very glad he couldn’t impregnate him, because he absolutely would have. 

Though a small part of him, a very small part had a sort of disappointment. Maybe not today, maybe not for a long while, but a very small part of him might’ve craved it in the far future, with Paul.

A slight softness grew within him thinking of it. Maybe it was too whimsical, a silly thought but...John smiled a touch at it. A darling little soul, made from the both of them, a little being embodying their love, brought into the world from the divinity that was their union.

John hoped it’d inherit the happiness Paul seemed to always carry. It was certainly one of the things John loved the most about him. His happy little Macca... And his beauty too...those lovely hazel eyes. John would love to see them on a child of his own. So many qualities of Paul that he adored were things John was lacking within himself. He hoped their child would take after Paul.

John would love their child dearly, a product of the both of them. He could only imagine what talent it’d inherit, probably surpassing their silly little group. Paul would love it too. He was already so good with John’s son. Better than him at times. It made him sad to think so. They’d all be a happy family together...hopefully someday soon.

John knew he had his faults, but he’d try to be better. He would give anything he could for Paul. He’d do anything to give him a happy lifetime. He’d be kind, gentle, and Paul would understand. He’d adore their little ones too. Their lives were hectic now, and that was quite welcome, but it wouldn’t always be this way, would it? There’d come a time when things slowed down, and life would continue on.

  
A little darling, an original Lennon-McCartney. He wouldn’t have to miss it this time. John could watch it learn and grow, make sure it knew it was loved. Paul would be good to it as well. It just came so naturally to him. It was true Paul was hubristic, that he could be callous at times, but never to the little ones. There was such a gentleness within him when it came to that. It made John feel a softness, painfully so, whenever he witnessed it. John wanted this. He wanted McCartney to bear his child. He wanted to create life from the both of them. A Lennon-McCartney.

  
  
But, John knew it was only a silly fantasy. Still, the thought gave him a peaceful feeling, as if he were floating.

He held Paul a moment longer, catching his breath, the pleasure ebbing through him, his head and body light with bliss. 

He didn’t care to move or think, that was until Paul began to fidget. John’s eyes opened sleepily.

“Hmm? Paul?” He mumbled adoringly.

Paul’s body stiffened, his head turned, a very slight amount. John’s nose was right by his soft pale cheek, grazing it. Paul’s face was flushed, dizzy, his lips spit-slicked and pink. It was a bit hard to see him in the dark, the distant music a bit loud, slowly regaining the clarity of the world around him.

“Are ya done?” Paul’s voice was quiet, weak, a bit hoarse. He spoke barely audibly, uncertain. “Can’ I go?”

John’s mind caught up, the liquor made it a bit slow. He held Paul’s hips, slowly pulling out. He’d softened by now. Paul made a sound of discomfort, feeling the fluid inside him. He gritted his teeth from the shame that burnt on his cheeks, his head bowing.

John squeezed his shoulder in comfort, still close by Paul as he zipped himself up. He still wanted to be near Paul after he finished. It made sense, Paul wasn’t a broad he’d picked up, John had been his friend for many years. If John didn’t enjoy his presence, he wouldn’t have been.

Finally free from John’s grip, Paul turned back around, attempting to straighten himself up, pull up his trousers. When they had a room, there was no need to straighten up. John simply fell asleep, sometimes even still inside him, holding Paul’s warm body close. However, at times like these, they were in public, and had to look presentable on the way back to the suite and such, whether it was girls they shagged or otherwise.

John had noticed Paul was always jittery after, trembling hands trying to fix himself up quickly, shame on his face, emptiness in his eyes. It was hard to watch, despite how John tried to help him. He’d smooth down Paul’s shirt, straighten his tie, tell Paul nice things, hold his hands, offer comfort. There wasn’t much else to do. 

Damn Paul and his pridefulness. Didn’t he realize how fucking soft John was being? The broads he’d nail would be lucky to get a “goodnight,” a fucking grunt. He was acting fucking soft for Paul, he was, and Paul didn’t fucking care.

As Paul tried to quickly tuck himself back in his pants, roughly, John noticed Paul’s flushed cheeks. Paul was still hard.

John’s hand shot to Paul’s left wrist, stopping him in his tracks. Paul’s eyes flitted up, body frozen. His lips were parted, staring at John as he held his breath.

“You didn’t get’off?” John said, voice apologetic. “Christ, m’sorry, Paul.”

Paul opened then closed his mouth quickly, heartbeat increasing.

“No! S’fine! S’fine, I’m alright, m’good.” Paul said, stumbling over his words, forcing them out of his weak throat.

John pushed Paul’s hands away, wrapping his own around Paul’s shaft. He froze up. Sure enough, Paul was still swollen with need, the leathery weight heavy in John’s hand. John felt terrible. He realized he hadn’t wrapped his hand around, giving Paul the stimulation he needed. Damn his muscle memory. Paul wasn’t a bird, he couldn’t get off solely getting fucked. John blamed the liquor. He was quite buzzed. They both were.

John promptly began to stroke it, a firm grip. It was his damn responsibility. He’d told Paul he’d make him feel nice, didn’t he? He’d take care of him. If John had wanted to get himself off, he could fuck a bird. 

He loved to toss Paul off. It was such a lovely sensation in his palm, hard, hot, and needy. He loved seeing the sweet prick swell in desperation. God, he was yanking a knob, but it was _Paul’s_ and his sounds were sweet and gentle, the sexual intoxication clear on his pretty face. It couldn’t be interpreted as anything else.

“C’mon Macca, yer not a bird. You’ve gotta get off.” John said, a playful tone. 

Paul’s eyes watched him with embarrassment, bashfulness. A breath escaped those pretty lips, a “hah.” His mouth was slack, and his legs weakened, pleasure overtaking him. John had gotten him this worked up, and wasn’t going to leave him hanging.

John lowered himself, getting to his knees. He was getting on his fucking knees for a bloke because that bloke was Paul and of course he would. Paul was frozen against the wall. John pressed his palms flat on Paul’s hips, taking the length in his mouth.

The position was certainly compromising for John. It was one thing to suck Paul off as he lay down, but another to kneel in front of him. When Paul lay down it was like eating out a bird, but not because a hot heavy knob was in his mouth, yet it felt so good. Paul was above him, literally and figuratively, looking down. John looked up at him hungrily. He didn’t care. John _was_ under him, a slave, a fool, completely taken by Paul’s beauty.

He took Paul deeper, tightening his lips around the stiff organ. It was delicious. It was clearly alive, it’s heat, it’s stiffness, Paul’s lovely little heartbeat coursing through it. Paul groaned at the sensation, such a wonderful sound, coming from deep in his throat. John’s hands were firm, a tight hold on Paul’s hips.

John shut his eyes, feeling the weight on his tongue. Paul’s voice got higher. His lovely hands shot to John’s head. John smiled wide around the organ. Maybe it was instinct, but hell if it was. He loved Paul touching him willingly. He loved it.

John knew how Paul liked it, every bit of it. One of his hands came below, a gentle hand tightening around Paul’s balls. Paul whined. John held them just firm enough to not hurt him, stroking his perineal raphe. John’s lips were tight on the heated shaft, desperate now. He pressed his tongue against the stiff spine of it.

Paul keeled over, relying on John to hold him up. Those lovely legs trembled at the intensity. Paul cried out again, he twitched in John’s throat. He gladly accepted any precum Paul released, a delicious taste. It was his reward for making Paul feel so good. John couldn't’ get enough of it.

Paul tugged at his hair. Christ it was so fucking nice. He wanted Paul to yank it, beg, he’d even take fucking demands. 

Paul groaned, too drunk and close to care for pride. He wanted to cum. 

John wished this moment could last for longer, the brief moment Paul didn’t _care_ , crying out for his release, not _repulsed_ by him. Once that release did come, it would inevitably melt into shame, breaking John’s heart.

Paul twitched again. It seemed that it wouldn’t be a second before he’d reach orgasm. 

John gently took his mouth off, letting the organ fall from his lips. It twitched in irritation against the open air. Paul cried out in frustration and surprise, not being given his release. John’s hands were still tight on his hips as Paul shook, fucking close to exploding.

“Ask Paul.” John teased, looking up at him. “I need to hear ya say it.”

Paul grimaced at hearing the voice. If Paul tuned out the noise around him, the scent, he could pretend he was somewhere else. John’s voice made him have to confront reality, who was really doing this to him, trying to get him to cum.

Christ, Paul needed it. All it would take was another stroke, the mouth back on him, and he’d reach orgasm. 

Paul was drunk, every hair on his body standing up in need, prick so hard it hurt. He swallowed his pride, as difficult as it was, his eyes shut tight, his cheeks burning. He’d get over it.

“ _Please..._ ” Paul stained through gritted teeth. He sobbed. It was mortifying, essentially _begging_ John to let him cum.

“Who?” John taunted, his voice slurred from the drinks. “Please what?”

Paul’s chest began to shake with sobs. Not from sadness or embarrassment, but with need. John was fucking with him even, as if all of it wasn’t enough. John was fucking patronizing him, making Paul humiliate himself like this.

Worse still, Paul fucking needed it. There was nothing else he could do.

  
  
  


“ _Please...John...need’it..._ ” He choked out through gritted teeth. 

Paul’s whole face burnt. His hands tugged on John’s hair, the fucking throbber painful between his legs. He couldn’t think about anything else.

Mercifully, that was enough to satisfy John. Paul’s erection was once again enveloped by heat. He threw his head back in relief. White-hot pleasure filled his hips, pure relief. The orgasm tore through him, shooting deep into John’s wanting mouth. John held Paul’s hips up, aided by the wall, as his legs weakened considerably.

Paul was keeled over, eyes shut tight as he came down from it, instinctively thrusting into the hot throat, a primal reaction. Paul held the head firmly in place, his rabbit teeth gritted, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He released every last drop, tension leaving his body. His feet shifted in his weakened stance.

Paul caught his breath, but it wasn’t a few moments before he realized what the fuck he was doing. His eyes shot open, seeing John looking up at him, eyes thick with lust, with…adoration. 

Paul pulled back, backing straight up against the wall. He was disgusted with himself. His head still spun with the liquor's effects. It was no excuse. He’d grabbed John’s fucking head, forcing himself deeper into the man’s fucking throat. He’d _begged_ for him to let him cum.

Paul’s hands trembled beside him. John slowly stood up, tucking Paul’s softening member away, zipping him back up. Paul couldn’t move, frozen as John tucked in his dress shirt, smoothing it down. He straightened Paul’s tie.

Paul’s eyes tightened shut as John smoothed his disheveled hair, messed up from all their movements. It was heated and damp from the exertion.

John’s hands held his cheeks. Paul scrunched his face up, sucking in a breath, knowing what would come next.

John kissed Paul’s cheeks, his nose, then his mouth, Again and again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, as this is John’s perspective, he justifies his actions. I’m still very aware that they’re messed up.
> 
> Sorry if I may repeat some thoughts and such, I’m not the most organized, lol. I write to de-stress, so I’m not very anal about it :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is heavy. I get the “oof” feelings writing it! This whole story is an “oof”

John hadn’t sedated Paul since the night he’d put up the camera, which led to their confrontation, which ultimately led to a better outcome than John could’ve hoped for.

It was bliss. He had Paul now. Whenever he wanted, no tricks, no cruelty, Paul would go along with his will. 

And yet...it wasn’t. 

It was true that Paul did what he wanted, but Paul was so...miserable about it.

It seemed that at first Paul was in denial. It’d only happened a couple times. Perhaps Paul was just imagining it. It was all a bad dream. John loved him. None of it was real. His life was normal in all other aspects, and John treated him the same otherwise. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be real.

But time went on. It slowly became apparent to Paul that thinking otherwise was merely a fantasy. He  _ was _ getting touched. He  _ was _ getting...fucked. John no longer saw him as only a partner and friend, but an object of desire. Perhaps he always did.

It had been exactly four months since John had given into temptation that first night, sedating and touching Paul. It was about three months had set up the camera and confronted him, and two months since John had fucked him fully conscious.

Perhaps it was the fucking that finally broke through Paul’s barrier of denial. Ever since that night it seemed, Paul had begun his withdrawal.

With the groping and touching, Paul was able to shut his eyes, tune it out. He could try his best to empty his head. It was a bird touching him. Maybe a nasty dream. Those hands, much too large and rough to be a bird’s, weren’t John’s. The voice, much too deep and harsh, teasing him, telling Paul how lovely he was, how good he was, wasn’t John’s. Paul wasn’t there. 

But the fucking...Paul couldn’t tune that out. He couldn’t pretend something else was happening, because there wasn’t anything else it could’ve been.

Paul was getting fucked, plain and simple, by another man. 

A hard heated object was forced inside him, an  _ organ _ , clearly  _ alive  _ in the way it  _ twitched _ and  _ throbbed _ . It  _ fucked into him!  _ Paul felt like he was being stretched to his limits, harsh and rough, a body pressed tight to his, hot breath on his neck. 

The worst part of it came when it finally finished. The organ would begin to pulse...shooting the hot fluid deep into him. It would seep into Paul’s gut, and he would  _ cry _ because he was being  _ defiled. _

It would  _ leak  _ out of him. Christ. Paul felt disgusting...he couldn’t even stand being in his body. No matter how much he spent in the shower he couldn’t get how it felt out of his head. 

Kisses would be pressed all over him, Paul’s face and neck and shoulders. John would always say sweet things, things John must  _ think  _ were sweet. There was  _ nothing  _ sweet or kind in what John was doing to him.

Christ... John.

It wasn’t just another man doing this to him. It was his friend. His  _ brother. _ Paul’s closest and dearest confidante. Paul had thought so anyway.

As the weeks went by, Paul simply became a bit...less.

It wasn’t a dramatic sort of misery, but on Paul it was rather jarring. He’d always been the cheery sort, such a high energy level, always quick to smile or laugh. 

His energy level had just...gone down. Paul didn’t joke as much in banter. Paul would still give a laugh, a small smile, it was a hard habit to break after all. His eyes just always seemed so...sad.

The closest Paul got to his original self was during sets. He’d start out a bit more straight-faced, but as he got into the groove of it, Paul would hoot and holler like he used to. He’d give his boundless energy to the crowd, and they’d give it right back. He’d tap his foot, bounce as he did. 

The only thing that would throw him off during concerts was if John caught his eye. John would smile, of course. That’s what they did. If it happened, them being on the same wavelength, they’d have the same thought:  _ Look at us, eh? We’ve done it! We’ve made it! _

Now if they met each other’s eyes, Paul’s face would fall, his joy leaving him. John’s smile would falter. 

Sometimes Paul would mess up a chord when it happened, stumble on stage. He’d lose the excitement he had, John’s gaze bringing him back to reality. Paul simply seemed to deflate. It broke John’s heart. 

They still had to write together. It was their fucking job. They performed their sets and wrote their songs. For this, they had to be alone.

Paul was on edge during this. John could tell. He knew Paul didn’t want to be alone with him, that Paul would rather be anywhere else.

If John reached for something, Paul’s whole body would recoil, and John’s heart would sink. John wasn’t gonna...why?

It wasn’t everytime that they were alone that John would try something. Christ, he sometimes just wanted to  _ be _ with Paul. Sometimes John  _ wanted _ to talk about the music! He wanted to work through the lyrics, shoot the shit with Paul, like they used to! 

John loved the banter they had, how they took the piss off each other. Whenever John tried that now, Paul wouldn’t fight back. His face would just stay blank, no attempt to give a snide remark. John’s voice would die in his throat. His face would fall. Paul would only look at him, an emptiness in his eyes. It hurt. Christ, it hurt so badly.

John lusted after Paul, but that wasn’t all he was good for. Paul was his friend, first and foremost. John wanted his friend back. When Paul looked at him, it seemed that any love he had for John before...was absent. Christ.

Paul wouldn’t stay silent. He still had input and ideas. But...there was no joy in it. It seemed that Paul was seeing it as routine, his job, helping John with small things here and there. 

_ “The uptick there’s a bit sudden.” _

_ “Eh, you think so?” _

_ “Sure.” _

_ “Thought it was sort of good, that. Kinda takes ya by surprise doesn’t it?” _

_ “...yeah. Alright. S’fine.” _

Another thing. If John ever disputed something Paul said, Paul would simply drop it. Christ...Paul used to be so stubborn with things, opinionated. Their songs always had to be exactly how Paul imagined them in his head. 

If John had a differing idea of how a song should go, they’d get into it, a tug of war until one won over the other, or they reached an agreement. Christ, sure it frustrated John at times, but he’d take it over  _ this _ anyday. Where the hell had his friend gone? 

_ “Don’t care much for this line here,”  _

_ Paul traced his finger over the handwriting in the notebook.  _

_ “Maybe different wording, sounds stilted, y’know.” _

_ “Lyrics don’t always have to be so literal. Have you seen what the Stones are doing? We don’t have to be put in a pigeonhole, inoffensive pop, y’know?” _

_ “Sure.” _

_ Paul’s voice was dismissive, _

_ “Christ, Paul. Can’t ya say anything other than that?” _

_ Paul seemed to shrink into himself, body tensing up. _

_ “Christ, like that! I’m not gonna fucking hit ya. Tell me!” _

_ Paul’s face went more pale. It fucking pissed him off. _

_ “M’sorry. Don’t care, anything’s fine...I don’t…” _

_ John just drew a frustrated breath. Berating him about it only made it worse.  _

_ “How do ya want the song to fuckin’ go, Paul?” _

When John ever attempted to go off topic, Paul wouldn’t reciprocate. Christ. John missed it, their conversations. If he ever mentioned an artist, something, whatever came to mind, Paul would just look at him. It wasn’t even that Paul would shut it down. He was just so...passive. Paul would look away from him, look down. His energy level would stay low.

_ “What do ya think of that broad on the telly last night? Been seeing her more about. Think she’s getting big...the American one.” _

_ “Eh? ...S’fine.” _

_ John frowned.  _

_ “That’s it?” _

_ Paul looked at him, no strong emotions on his face. _

_ “Think the tempo’s a bit strange. Maybe we can do a bit faster on this part, then bring it down over here...” _

_ Paul’s finger moved across the notepad. _

_ “Enough about the fuckin’ song, Paul! You don’t care for her then?” _

_ Paul looked at him wearily, a bit of irritation in his eye. His tone was a bit snappy. _

_ “No. Shut up about the broad, will ya? Don’t care.” _

_ John snapped back. _

_ “Don’t take that tone with me, son. Jus’ tryna fucking talk with ya.” _

_ Paul’s face darkened. _

_ “Don’t wanna fuckin’ talk with ya, eh? Don’t care.” _

_ A familiar resentment made itself known inside John, his quickness to anger. His tone darkened as well. _

_ “Well if ya don’t want to talk...I can find something else to do with ya, y’know.” _

_ Paul’s face paled at that. His lips trembled, the hand on the notes pulling back. His voice was shaky and uneven, losing all the edge from before. He sounded like a scared fucking kid. _

_ “M’sorry...m’sorry...I didn’t mean’it...swear I didn’t…” _

_ It was all wrong. It shouldn’t be this way. John would’ve felt better if Paul at least would’ve shot back. When Paul reacted like this, it made him feel awful. Christ.  _

_ “I, no. Not gonna...The song, yeah? Not tonight.” _

_ Paul’s lips tightened. He spoke even less for the rest of the evening. _

Whenever their sessions came to an end, or their friends returned, and John hadn’t made a move, it seemed that Paul would nearly sob in relief, all the tension leaving his body. It was fucking devestating. It shouldn’t be this way.

Was satisfying his lust for Paul worth all this grief?

Yes.

Christ. There was nothing on earth that compared to it.

He loved Paul. He loved him. He loved him. Loved him. Loved him.

There was nothing on earth that could compare to that closeness. Paul’s scent and voice and body pressed tight against his. Paul would cry and whine in pleasure. Nobody could please Paul the way he could. John knew this. John’d give him such pleasure, coax him into his lovely orgasms.

In these brief moments, when Paul was at the very brink, his eyes would be clouded with lust. With his head empty, there’d be no pride or shame or disgust. Paul was on the very edge of release, his body craving it like nothing else. He would look at John and John would look at him, and for this short moment they would feel the same thing.

It was what came after Paul’s release that was miserable. He’d be brought back to reality, and he’d be ashamed. Paul’s eyes would be sad again, more humiliated than before, his lips tightening.

Paul would come around. He would, wouldn’t he? It must be right, it felt too good not to be. Why would something this wonderful be hurting Paul? He didn’t want to hurt him. 

They were Lennon-McCartney weren’t they? A winning pair. The whole world thought so. John was the stern one, and Paul was the sweet one. John did love him. He did. Paul was his partner, and dear friend. All he’d done was take it a step further. 

John would try his best to be kind, to be gentle. He wasn’t half this nice with the girls he’d bring up! Christ, he wasn’t even this soft with his wife. John was fucking weak for Paul, everything about him. He’d kiss those long eyelids, whisper affirmations into those seashell ears. He’d stoke Paul’s body, try to make it better afterwards. Paul  _ shouldn’t  _ be miserable.

Cheery Paul, what a happy little face. His cheeks would bunch up, his eyes crinkling. He had a melodic low laugh. No woman on earth would have a laugh like that, a giggle that deep. It was a man’s voice, but sweeter than wild honey. He’d do it so easily too, so often. Paul had a jagged canine, it jutted out when he smiled. He had those front teeth that made him look like a sweet little bunny-rabbit.

Those women didn’t know the half of it when they called him the cute Beatle. It wasn’t just cuteness. Paul was joyful. He fucked and swore and smoked and drank, but his soul had a sweet innocence to it. Joy would shine through his eyes as he smiled. If he met John’s gaze during a gag, the joy would be directed towards him. It filled his chest with warmth, the light inside of Paul infectious.

John hadn’t seen that for three months.

John hadn’t sedated Paul since he’d watched the tapes. He was glad that Paul went along with it now, but he missed how relaxed Paul was while sedated. Whenever he took Paul now, he’d  _ tense up, _ and  _ grimace,  _ Paul was _ there, _ but it was clear he didn’t want to be. 

John remembered the drawbacks. He knew Paul didn’t like gaps in his memory, even before he found out what had been...going on.

John did like Paul being conscious, truly with him, able to speak to him, understand what was happening. He didn’t particularly like Paul being a sort of shell….but he found himself missing it.

When John used to sedate him, Paul might’ve been “out of it,” but he was peaceful, completely compliant. Paul would drift off afterwards, no shame or disgust with himself. He’d be curious of the touches, eyes loosely following John’s movement. He was such a sweet little thing.

John wanted to do it again, if only once more. 

  
  


~

So he did. 

Paul, much like before, didn’t expect it. He wouldn’t think John would have a reason to drug him. Paul was going along with it, wasn’t he? Despite all his revulsion. 

Paul didn’t notice the sedative slipped in his drink. He got loopier, as if he were falling asleep...Just not all the way. John helped him to their room, Paul not having any thoughts about it.

As before, with Paul’s eyes open, following movement, John had to convince himself that Paul was really not there. Suppose there was no danger with Paul regaining consciousness, John chuckled. Paul would know what was happening, and resign to it like he always did.

John didn’t find humor in Paul’s sadness. He was even getting a bit tired of it. Paul had no reason to be miserable.

John tried putting himself in his friend’s place. What if Paul was the one doing this to him? Well, obviously John would be proper chuffed with Paul lusting after him in return. If Paul came onto him one day, John would reciprocate giddily.

Suppose John wouldn’t like being drugged though, even if it was Paul doing it. His memory gone, sedated the whole time, unable to enjoy it. 

The thought made John feel a bit bad. He glanced at Paul, who was staring at him lazily, eyes unseeing. Maybe it  _ was _ selfish of him. John bit his lip.

Paul let him have what he wanted now. John had no reason to drug him like this, take away his will, ability to fight back. Paul should have the right to his feelings...even if they weren’t the ones John wanted.

“Last time I do this.” John said to the shell of his friend. “...Promise.”

All John wanted was to see Paul relaxed again as he fucked him. He didn’t want to see the shame on his face afterwards, how Paul’s body tensed when they got started, the dread on his face. John hated it.

John began to undress him. The shoes, trousers, collared shirt, revealing all that lovely skin.

What had spurred on the idea in the first place was John’s desire to see Paul smile again. He removed Paul’s tie, and bound those delicate wrists together over his head, to one of the headboard slats. Of course, Paul couldn’t do much drugged, but with what John had planned, Paul might swing at him out of instinct.

John hovered over his friend, his knees resting on either side of him. Paul shifted his wrists out of curiosity, his gaze drifting around. 

John smiled down at his relaxed face. Such a sweetheart. Paul looked very angelic, free of worries and resentment, dreaming away in his pretty head. He cupped Paul’s cheeks, which made Paul’s gaze meet his sleepily. John smiled wider. Sweetheart.

John ran his hands down Paul’s soft chest, lust stirring within him as the soft flesh grazed against his palms. It was a familiar feeling now, which John associated clearly with sex.

Paul wasn’t hard. John would help with that later. He stroked Paul’s soft stomach, feeling the muscles tighten under his grip. While sedated, Paul was only motivated by confusion or curiosity at the touches, not discomfort or repulsion. 

Why was Paul always so on edge? John hadn’t hit him for a long while, hadn’t even threatened to. It was a couple months, wasn’t it? John hated to do it, and he wouldn’t lay a hand on him without reason. He couldn’t help it, he was so quick to temper, but he tried his best. Especially for Paul.

John’s eyes drifted lower down his body. Christ, he didn’t know what was wrong with him, but  _ something _ about feet made his mouth water. Was it normal? Paul’s feet in particular. Every part of him was lovely, but seeing bare feet gave him the same feeling John got when looking at tits. 

Paul’s were so sweet, so soft looking, like the rest of his body. A pleasure to touch, bring to his mouth. John hadn’t indulged in them for a while, not wanting to weird out the conscious Paul. When he wasn’t conscious though, John didn’t need to worry about judgement.

John had done this with a handful of birds. He knew it was a strange request, but sometimes he’d ask, and they’d go along with it.

John lifted Paul’s delicate ankle (those were lovely as well, curving into his arched foot). Paul’s legs were certainly more fuzzy than a bird’s, but John didn’t adore them any less. Little faun, Paul was. John smiled down at him.

John undid his fly, pressing his erect length to Paul’s sole. They were lovely arched things, he didn’t see ones like it often. He dragged himself across the padded flesh and groaned. Christ, it was hot. It was so hot. Why was it so?

It was an addicting feeling. Paul’s foot was even nicer against him than the women’s. Perhaps since it was significantly larger. Paul was likely the tallest person he’d been with at 180cm (women were always shorter), so he’d need a larger base, which made sense. The flesh on it was so doughy, so smooth and nice against him, the shape of the foot no less delicate and lovely. 

John pressed it harder to himself, picking up his speed. Paul made no reaction, other than trying to shift his leg from curiosity. There was a strange sensation on his foot, a hard swollen object frotting against his sole. John held the leg still easily, Paul’s strength having so real direction. His vision blurred as he got closer. Paul looked so sweet.

John was able to stop himself. As good as it felt, he wasn’t gonna blow his load over Paul’s foot.

John’s hands found that soft chest. Christ was it nice. Paul didn’t need large fucking honkers like a bird did. It was soft and sweet just like the rest of that lovely body. John found those sweet pink puffies, grazing each one firmly with his thumbs. Paul’s body stiffened, his eyes flitting wider a split second.

John smiled and made his touches rougher, pinching and squeezing the hardening puds, caressing the entire chest area. Damn, Paul had a knockout chest. He gave a firmer pinch, a sharp tug to them. Paul’s breath hissed, his knob stirring. The emotion shown through his dizzy face. John let himself a giggle.

“Ey, Paul? You like it when yer tits are touched?” He teased. Paul let out a long deep grumble from his throat, eyebrows furrowing over unfocused eyes. Paul fucking loved it, he did. The slut. John fucking loved it as well.

He played with them a moment longer, watching Paul hum and moan, his pretty knob waking up. Paul was such a delight, such a lovely treat. 

John stopped after indulging in it a bit. He knew how embarrassed Paul was over the sensation he got here, so he’d never fully enjoy it when conscious, John’s eyes boring into him, smiling. It was a shame, but John could never make him give up the insecurity. 

Now it was time his original intention. John ran light hands over Paul’s sides, searching for a reaction.

Much to his pleasure, Paul wrinkled his cute nose. John grinned, getting bolder with the touches, tickling his sides. He sat on Paul’s waist, straddling him, holding him down.

Paul started gasping for breath, a smile growing on his face. He tugged at the restraints weakly, and began to burst into laughter. A beautiful laugh, so sweet and deep. John’s heart filled with warmth, his smile growing as well. Paul’s eyes were squinted, the skin wrinkling. His soft cheeks bunched up.

“What a lovely smile.” John breathed. His touches became lighter, causing Paul to make heartwarming low giggles. 

“There you are, happy little Paul.” John’s voice was thick with adoration, a softness that not even he could recognize. “I’ve missed seeing ya like this.”

Paul didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He kept giggling. 

John’s face began to fall the longer it went on. Paul was giggling, but his eyes were glassy. He looked stoned. Well...Paul was in a way. 

In a normal context, joy would shine through Paul’s eyes, giving them life. It didn’t look right at all. Paul was a shell. He was a fucking shell.

Paul kept giggling, gasping, giving little shrieks, his cheeks turning pink. Paul wasn’t fucking there. He wasn’t fucking happy. It was a fucking physiological reaction. John retreated his hands numbly.

He couldn’t force Paul to be happy. He’d tried to make him smile, hold things over his head, just to  _ see _ it, but it wasn’t genuine. Paul could try his hardest to fake it, appease John at the moment, but there was no joy in his eyes.

It was all Paul’s fucking fault. If he hadn’t put up that fucking video camera, if it wasn’t for that fucking tape, Paul would still love him the same as before. John wasn’t stupid. He knew the way Paul looked at him now. Paul was fucking afraid of him, dreaded being alone with John. He forced himself to stay still as John had his way with him, but it was obvious he wanted nothing more than to bolt. It was miserable.

John didn’t want him to be miserable. It was all Paul’s fucking fault. That fucking camera. John tried to be kind, he tried to be gentle, but Paul only hated him for it.

At least when Paul’s body was sedated, he didn’t fucking  _ flinch  _ and  _ tense up  _ whenever John touched him. It was fucking miserable.

John felt up Paul’s compliant body. His heart filled with warmth again. Paul was so sweet like this. Why couldn’t John have it both ways? He wanted Paul as his friend, as his partner, but at the end of the day, he wanted to indulge in his beauty. Was it such a big step up? If he could pleasure Paul with his company, was it so different pleasuring him physically? John wasn’t hurting him, he was doing the opposite!

He ran a hand up Paul’s navel. Paul’s eyes lazily followed the movement, though they were unfocused.

“You like this, don’t you, Paul?”

He didn’t respond.

Christ, sedating him was no better. Paul wasn’t Paul like this. It was only his beauty, but nothing else. Of course he was a  _ sweetheart,  _ he had no will of his own. He was the angel that the real Paul wasn’t. The real Paul was miles away, buried in his own subconscious.

“C’mon Paul, move those pretty lips. Won’t you please say something to me?”

Paul’s eyes followed the sound. He stared at John blankly.

John would take an insult at this point, anything. Even if Paul didn’t ask for more, he could tell John if something was hurting him, and John could stop. His words would reach Paul at the very least, even if he didn’t respond.

John leant over him, bringing his face closer, gentle hands resting on his friend’s chest.

“C’mon, say my name at least. You’ve done it before.” He said. “You can do’it, c’mon. John...John…” 

Paul opened his mouth then closed it. It seemed that he understood half of it, but the cogs couldn’t move in his brain. His pretty eyes drifted off again, the confusion being too much.

“ _ Please,  _ Paul?” He said.

Christ, was his voice breaking? This was pathetic. John was begging his  _ drugged _ friend to speak to him...a friend he’d dugged in the first place so he could _ fuck _ him without issue. This was fucking soft. John knew it was fucking soft. He knew he wanted to fuck Paul, but this was getting ridiculous.

He massaged Paul’s curved hips, the meat of it, kneading into the hipbone. Paul didn’t even react. 

John let his head fall to Paul’s stomach. It was so soft and warm, the bare skin against his cheek. Paul was sweet scented as well. John buried his nose in it.

It was nice, so soft and warm. He wouldn’t mind doing just this, simply  _ touching _ Paul’s body, even without the sex. He loved the feeling of it against him, gentle and soft, as large as John’s but more slender, long shapely limbs curling around him. John sighed at the thought.

That snapped him out of it. John’s eyes shot open, his head jerking up. Anger burned inside him. He glared down at his sedated friend, sleeping so sweetly. The cunt.

What the fucking hell was he doing? Pathetic. Pathetic. What was he hoping to achieve? Paul would wake up the next morning, a gap in his memory, and  _ know _ what had happened, all for what? For John to sob over him? 

He wrapped a hand around Paul’s thigh, digging in his nails, making it hurt, just to say that he could. 

Paul’s face showed the discomfort. He tried to tug his leg, but had no strength when sedated, the discomfort taking up too much space in his mind. John gripped harder, making it hurt more, causing Paul’s eyebrows to draw. It filled John with a sick satisfaction, a grin developing on his face. Paul let out a shaky breath.

It was fucking pathetic, going so soft for Paul. Paul was his fucking mate, not an innocent little fan who he’d gotten worked up over. Paul wasn’t his fucking wife. 

He wanted to fuck Paul, so he would. John was going fucking soft. Paul would fucking laugh and smile again. He was fucking easy for it. Paul was a fucking ditz, giving it up for the slightest thing. He’d get over whatever pridefulness he was dealing with.

Why the hell did John drug him? Paul fucking allowed it when he was awake! This was an idiotic game John was playing. He wouldn’t drug Paul again, but he might as well go through with it tonight, or Paul would hate him the next morning for nothing.

John wrapped his hand around Paul’s length, which had since softened, a bit harsher than usual. Paul groaned from the sensation mixed with the discomfort. It shot arousal through John. Yes, that was a nice sound.

“Like it, Paul?” He jeered. What a little tart, always good for it. 

Due to obvious reasons, Paul couldn’t respond. 

Paul let out shaky exhales as John pulled him off, letting him harden. Paul’s legs shifted in curiosity, his hands moving in his binds. The touch was rougher, but he recognized it as sexual pleasure, and it worked him up. Silly thing. He must be dreaming of a bird, trying to fuck her through his haze, unsure of what was happening. This sort of reaction Paul had always endeared John.

John liked to get Paul off, but what was the point of playing with his knob whilst he wasn’t conscious? Paul wouldn’t fucking remember it. John would spend time pleasuring the awake Paul, try to convince the stubborn cunt that John was good to him. Paul didn’t seem to give a flying fuck upon finding out what’s been happening, that John took the time to pleasure him whilst sedated. John couldn’t blame him, Paul didn’t fucking remember it.

John put the gel on his fingers, promptly shoving one into Paul. Paul winced. Perhaps John had done it too quickly, or maybe it was the cold. John huffed, but did it gentler, stroking the spot inside him. Paul held his breath, his eyes darting around. 

Paul looked afraid. John felt bad. 

Despite it all, Paul didn’t know what was happening. Rough touches and a harsh tone, all the while unable to think, would be frightening to anybody. John didn’t want to do that. It was his responsibility to make sure Paul was comfortable during this. Fuck, it was the least he could do. Paul was his friend after all.

John had been letting his resentment show through. Paul couldn’t fucking fight back, it was unfair to berate him. He was essentially a husk. John tried to force his voice gentler, offer some comfort. 

“S’alright, Paul.” He said, lightening his tone. “Jus’ gettin’ ya prepared, see? It’ll feel nice.”

Paul let out a shaky breath from his sweetly parted hips. He frowned at Paul. He definitely wouldn’t do this again. John stroked his soft stomach as Paul hummed in pleasure. 

Stupid Paul. He felt guilty, knowing this wouldn’t be Paul’s true reaction. John felt like he was taking something away from him. Paul would wake up, and know  _ why  _ he couldn’t remember. Paul would trust him even less. Stupid Paul. John shouldn’t have done this. 

It was too late now. Whether he slept with Paul or not, the next morning would be the same. He could tell Paul he changed his mind, didn’t fuck him, but why would Paul believe that?

He still had tonight before Paul would realize what had happened. John wrapped his hand tighter around Paul’s shaft. His entrance was prepared sufficiently. He could fuck Paul just once more, relaxed and compliant.

John held himself in his hand, lifted one of Paul’s shapely legs, then pushed in.

Christ. The intense pleasure washed over him like a wave of relief. Any tension in John’s body was released. He shut his eyes, resting his body on top of Paul’s.

John had been working himself up, all those thoughts, but the moment he entered Paul it didn’t matter. All resentment left him. John opened his eyes, and he could see Paul’s sweet little face looking back lazily from dark lidded eyes. An angel face.

John began to move, eyes fixated on nothing but those lovely features. His hand reached down, wrapping itself around Paul’s shaft, slowly stroking it. It was important that Paul felt nice as well. Sweet moans escaped Paul’s lips.

John began pressing kiss after kiss to that delicate mouth, those full petal lips. Paul’s face might be dreamy, but he looked relaxed, not straining himself to keep in place, clearly humiliated. Those soft cheeks were turning pink from the sensation.

“Sweet, sweet, lips, Paul…” John mumbled nonsensically.

One of Paul’s legs shifted from curiosity. John smiled. He wrapped it around himself, going deeper. Such a shapely limb. He sometimes wished Paul would hold him tight, claw at his back, intensity brought on by passion. The women did. 

John let his eyes fall shut, indulging in the sensation and scent around him. He rested his head on Paul’s shoulder. One hand was keeping Paul’s leg up, the other tossing him off gently. Paul needed stimulation there as well to get off.

Paul was getting closer. He could tell. His arousal twitched in John’s hand.

John heard a sweet sound come from Paul. Paul was trying to speak.

“Hah-”

John raised his head, immediately pepping up. John smiled down at him intently. His face quickly fell at seeing Paul’s expression.

Paul’s face was pale, clammy, his eyebrows drawn. His eyes were desperately, futilely, trying to focus as the sensations coarse through him, darting around his head. It seemed like the inability to do so was only making it worse.

John’s eyebrows knitted in concern, his chest sinking. Paul was normally calm or flustered when sedated, maybe confused, but never scared. The worst it got was discomfort. Paul was never  _ scared. _

“Hah-” Paul said again, the breath escaping his mouth. 

“Paul, what’s wrong?”

John wasn’t hurting him. He knew he wasn’t. He hadn’t done anything differently. John twisted Paul’s knob. It was close, John knew it was. Paul was swollen, leaking his sweet fluids.

John tried to pleasure him, focus on his prostate, a familiar sensation he knew Paul liked. The feeling of movement inside him, the familiar touch, only made Paul’s breaths quicken.

Paul moved his lips. It must be difficult for him, his lips heavy, his tongue heavy, unable to keep a thought in his head. He sucked in a breath, trying to get the words out. Speak.

“Help’m-!” Paul forced out his lips. 

Paul’s eyes weren’t seeing. He looked terrified, but he didn’t even know where he was.

Paul’s breath got higher and more panicked. The inability to focus kept making him even more distressed, not knowing  _ where  _ the pleasure was coming from. He was about to cum, but he didn’t know  _ why. _

Paul’s wrists tugged at the restraints. John could see the instant Paul realized they were bound. The inability to free his hands multiplied his fear tenfold. He looked unrecognizable, even to John.

“ _ Help,me! _ ” Paul shrieked, using all his power to formulate the words. Paul had to force the air out of himself, manipulate his lips.

John’s fingers went numb. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This had never happened before. John tried to console him, light touches on his cheeks.

“Paul, s’okay. Yer safe. Yer okay.”

“Hah,” Paul breathed. He’d tried to formulate the words again, but it hadn’t worked. 

All the color was drained from Paul’s face, his mouth wide open as he gasped for air. He sucked in a breath, then let out a strained shriek. His heart was racing in his chest. Paul pulled his wrists again, but they wouldn’t come free. He sucked in another breath.

“ _ Help’m! _ ” He shrieked. His breaths got more erratic, he tugged and tugged frantically. His body was too heavy. He couldn't move.

John was horrified. Was it too much of the drug? Couldn’t be, he’d always given Paul the same dose.

John pulled out of him immediately, his hands shooting to undo Paul’s wrists. Paul struggled to the best of his ability in the bonds, his breaths coming out shallow and labored, sounds of distress escaping him. His eyes darted around. Paul whined, not in a sexual manner, or even discomfort. It was fearful, less masculine that he’d even allow while conscious. Tears began to prick at his wide eyes.

“What’s wrong, Paul? What’s wrong?’

Paul couldn’t respond. He wasn’t looking at John. Thankfully he seemed to calm down slightly, still pale and breathing shallowly. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This had never happened before. 

John kept stroking Paul’s palms, those large soft things, squeezing his hands, trying to put feeling into them. He looked into Paul’s eyes. They kept darting around, unable to focus or recognize anything.

To John’s great relief, Paul’s breaths began to even out. Color returned to his soft cheeks. John squeezed his hands. He kept speaking softly. That always seemed to calm him. Paul let out a shaky exhale from his nose.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Paul woke up groggily one morning. Horror dawned on him. He couldn’t remember falling asleep.

He used to be so confused, but now he knew  _ why.  _ Paul looked over his body. He wasn’t clothed. Paul knew, he  _ knew _ what had happened. Oh Christ. 

His skin crawled. He felt filthy. There was nothing inside him, but that didn’t mean much. (It was humiliating that Paul had to  _ think _ of it). John could’ve cleaned up after himself, or simply groped and touched Paul, all the while Paul had no ability to say anything against it.

Paul buried his face in his hands. 

Of  _ course _ John would. Maybe he missed the power, or maybe Paul wasn’t  _ enthusiastic  _ enough when he let John  _ fuck _ him.

Hopeless. Hopeless.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "oof"


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s bad, folks, even by my standards. No injuries, but violence warning, emotional as well. Normally I’d like things to be a surprise, but I’d feel bad not giving a heads up.
> 
> You can read up to the cutoff (the tilde), but skip the rest if it’d harm you. I’ll put a summary in the next chapter’s notes.

Paul didn’t speak to him the next day. He went to shower, washing himself harshly whether John had cleaned him afterwards or not. At least when John fucked him while awake, Paul knew exactly what happened. He had autonomy. Paul might be giving into what was happening, but that was a choice he got to make. Even though it was hell, it was better than a gap in his memory.

Upon getting dressed, Paul returned to the common area, greeting his bandmates waiting. Turns out George and Ringo were a bit miffed Paul had taken so long. They’d have to rush out to the car. Paul was unaffected. He didn’t look at John.

John seemed to be a bit put off as well. He knew that Paul knew what happened, and seemed _guilty_ even. Well, what the hell did he expect?

They all made it to the airplane, but just barely. Luckily, there wasn’t a second to breathe and let the tensions stir.

That was until they were safely on the plane of course.

They liked to wander around the plane’s cabin during their long flights, visiting with the other passengers. Their faces were all over the papers, so of course anybody would be fucking chuffed to meet them. 

Paul remained in his seat, not swayed by the idea. He stared out the window. It was nothing but whiteness.

Somebody took a seat beside him after a moment. Fuck. Paul tensed up, glaring straight ahead. Of course his natural reaction around John was to tense up. 

“What’s up, Paul?” John said. 

His tone was quite casual, but with a bit of concern coming through. 

The muscles in Paul’s jaw tensed. His wrist lifted from the armrest, his hand clenched in a fist.

John lowered his voice, his position becoming less relaxed, his eyebrows knitting with worry.

“I shouldn't have done tha’...last night…” John said. “M’sorry…”

Paul gave him the side eye, face contorted in fury, lips drawn tight. A fucking apology? John seemed genuine about it too. The hell was that going to do?

“Then fuckin’ stop.” Paul muttered at him through gritted teeth, voice dangerously low. His face began to burn with the anger he was keeping in. 

More than anything, Paul was angry. With John, at his whole fucking situation. He was angry at himself, even if there was nothing he could do.

“M’sorry.” John said again, his voice guilt-stricken.

Paul didn’t respond. He clenched his jaw tighter. It took all he had not to hit him.

“I won’t do it again.” John persisted, his tone carrying on. “Was a mistake.”

Paul couldn’t hold it back. He gave a short, crazed, bark of laughter. Mistake? His face burnt with anger again, the hilarity being short lived. Paul held excruciatingly still, nearly shaking from the fury. He eyes bore holes in the seat in front of him.

John’s voice went even quieter, making absolutely sure only the two of them could hear him.

“I didn’t fuckin’ finish, y’know?” He hissed. “You began acting off...began acting scared-like. Was horrible. You’d never done it before.”

John continued.

“I stopped, y’know? I made sure you was alright. I calmed ya down.”

Paul barked again, a sharper, louder sound. It wasn’t funny. None of it was fucking funny, but Paul fucking had to laugh. He felt like laughing and laughing. He wanted to laugh until he coughed up a fucking lung.

John looked taken aback, stiffening up in surprise. People were looking at them, eyes on Paul’s strange behavior. Let them fucking look! Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. 

“Christ, Paul!” John hissed under his breath. “Calm the fuck down, what the fuck are ya doing? People are looking.”

Paul smiled wide, eyes still furious, boring into the people around him. Paul must look so silly, his silly fucking babyface, enraged eyes. Nobody fucking took him seriously, did they? Fucking cute little thing, soft cheeks, long eyelashes, and dainty lips. A fucking tart to some, it seemed. 

Paul wanted to choke John out. He clenched and unclenched his fists, slender fingers trembling. Paul forced his voice lower, looking at John with that stupid fake smile.

“Well! Thanks then!” Paul hissed back through gritted teeth, glaring right into John’s eyes, his voice as exaggeratedly giddy as his face. “That’s jus’ fuckin’ _fab_ , in’t it? Ya made sure I was alright, _eh?_ You _stopped?_ Well...”

“C’mon, Paul.” John said under his breath. He had his hands out, trying to calm Paul down. Maybe he should’ve tried _fucking_ leaving Paul be!

“What, you want a fuckin _gold medal?_ ” Paul said. 

Paul’s face fell, contorted in anger. He seethed at John.

“You want a _fuckin’_ kiss on the cheek, John? A grand thank you? Well...”

Paul’s felt his cheeks bunching up. He fucking hated it. His cheeks and fucking rabbit teeth. Paul probably looked like a fucking angry bunny. He could lower it, but Paul couldn’t ever make his voice harsh or grating the way John could. His voice always sounded _sweet._ No wonder they didn’t fucking take him seriously. Paul fucking hated it. Fucking hated it.

“You think _any_ of this is fuckng _gear?_ ” Paul continued, ranting under his breath. “You can’ go fucking _apoligizing,_ like ya had a goddamned _slip-up!_ Either all of’this is fuckin’ okay to ya, or _none_ of it is! You can’t have it fuckin’ both ways John! Don’t ya know what yer fuckin _doing_ ta me?”

“M’sorry. M’sorry, Paul.” John repeated weakly. His face was pale, looking at Paul with guilt, his palms clammy.

Paul grimaced at him. He buried his face in his hands. 

“Paul…”

Paul ignored him, that fucking piteous voice. Paul wasn't fucking crying. He just needed to close his fucking eyes for a second. He flinched when John tried to put a hand on his shoulder. Luckily there was only so much John could do on the plane. They weren’t alone. 

“I swear, never again, Paul. I won’t put ya to sleep…” John murmured to him.

“ _Fuckin!_ ” Paul hissed in exasperation. He lifted his head, glaring straight at John. “The fuckin’ druggin me? That’s what yer fuckin’ fixated on? I don’ want _any_ of’t, John!”

John’s face darkened.

“You gotta, Paul.” He said.

Paul’s face fell in disbelief.

“Why…?” He said, voice small. 

John’s face seemed confused, then it turned lascivious.

John’s hand ran down the length of Paul’s wrist, reaching Paul’s clenched fist, tightening around it. The touch was lingering, sexual, too subtle and out of view for the other passengers to pick up on. Paul’s skin crawled and he let out an uncomfortable hum.

“I gotta have ya.” John said simply.

Paul bowed his head, his features distorting in misery.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**~**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Once they landed, they had a show. Paul played his parts, sang his bits. He was tired afterwards. It was too loud.

Paul was the first to come back to the suite. He’d gone out with the lads that night after the show, but he hadn’t felt the urge to stay out. Some broad seemed keen to give him a nosh, but the thought didn’t entice him. Paul was becoming disillusioned with it all, really. All of the partying and such. What was the point of it all.

He lit up a smoke in the suite. At least he had privacy. Paul never had any fucking privacy. The closest to it was being alone with his bandmates, but that wasn’t exactly being “alone,” was it?

Especially with John, always breathing down his shoulder. Fucking John. Paul shuddered, bringing the cigarette to his lips with a shaky hand, taking a drag. John was always fucking looking at him in his way. 

The cigarette calmed him at least, despite his shaking fingers. Being alone at last was a load off his shoulders, nobody fucking looking at him. 

There was always a lustful gaze directed at him now, whether it be the girls, some bloke who got off to his femininity. Now it was fucking John too. It was suffocating. Paul felt like a goddamned piece of meat, always being eyed up. He was fucking tired of it! Paul couldn’t fucking help it, the way he was, the way he looked. He wanted them all to fucking let him be!

The door to his room creaked open. Paul’s head snapped to it. He was always on fucking edge. Every little noise made him fucking flinch.

Paul was right to. It was John. His whole body froze. 

Paul leant sharply over to the nightstand, harshly putting out his cigarette. He wanted to get out of here. Sexual intent or not, Paul didn’t want to be alone with him.

“Hullo, Paul.” John said.

His voice was dripping with lust again. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. It was all so fucking familiar too. 

Paul shut his eyes and drew his lips tight. Fucking hell. Fucking hell.

John swayed a slight amount in the doorway.

“What do ya want?” Paul shot back bitterly, not looking at him. His eyes were fixed on his burnt out cigarette stub.

“Gotta smoke for me?” John said. His voice was slurred. Paul expected as much, coming back from drinking.

“Sure. Whatever.” Paul muttered. He took the box from his shirt pocket, tossing it down the bed towards John.

John made an exaggerated sigh sound, taking the piss out of Paul.

“Why so cold to me, Paul?”

Paul ground his teeth.

“You fuckin’ know why. I put up with yer shite, but I don’t gotta be happy about it.”

John took a seat on the bed, dipping the mattress. Paul still didn’t turn to him. He heard John slide a cigarette from the box.

“Got a light, Macca?” He said, voice mumbled from the cigarette between his teeth.

Paul reached into his suit coat, tossing a lighter John’s way. He didn’t turn his head. 

He heard it light, the sound of John breathing it in.

“Don’t see why you have’ta be such a cunt.” John mumbled. 

Paul seethed. He was slouched over, sitting at the right edge of the mattress.

“Say, Macca…” John shifted on the bed, laying a hand on Paul’s curved hip. “How ‘bout a kiss.”

Christ. Paul couldn’t think of anything less enticing than kissing his drunk comrade, stubble on his chin and cigarettes on his breath. Paul didn’t shift.

John’s hand wandered over his back, curling around his other hip, giving it a squeeze. Paul cringed. He nearly let out a whine of frustration. Fucking hell.

“C’mon, jus’ one, Mac‘artney.” John said. “I gave up a sure thing back there, y’know. Couldn’t get ya off my mind.”

John’s voice lowered, becoming more salacious, lustful.

“All I could think’of were those little lips of yers. Fuckin’ delicious they’are. All I could think’of was how nice it feels to fuck ya. Couldn’t even think of fucking her then. Yer hotter than the load of ‘em, Paul. They wish they was half as good at ya.”

Paul still didn’t respond. It seemed that John was getting impatient, giving Paul a coarse huff. He grabbed Paul by the shoulder. 

“Fuckin’ talk to’me.” John said, getting angrier at Paul’s indifference. Paul returned the anger.

“The fuck do ya want me to say to tha’?” Paul spat back at him, voice low, dripping with contempt. “Want me to be fuckin’ pleased?”

John was getting even angrier, Paul’s hatred rubbing off on him. John was happy when he returned to the suite, but Paul had to go and act like a frigid cunt. The liquor made the irritation crawl over his skin, amplifying the emotion.

A bird would be fucking stoked to hear this. So many girls, all across the world, would kill to have John crave them the way he craved Paul, unable to get her off his mind. Fucking ungrateful Paul was. 

“Listen here…” John muttered at him, jerking Paul roughly by the shoulder to face him. 

Paul looked at him with disgust and contempt, making John resent him all the more. At the same damn time, Paul’s face drew him in. It always did. Such pretty lidded eyes, long eyelashes, dark arched brows. Paul was glaring at him, making those eyes look all the more intense. Paul was even captivating whilst mad. 

John’s voice turned mirthful, thick with lust. He looked deeply into Paul.

“C’mere.” He purred.

John brought a hand to the back of Paul’s neck, his cigarette dangling from the other. Paul stiffened up, refusing to go along with John’s administrations.

Still, he increased the pressure, forcing Paul’s face against him, pressing his lips to Paul’s sweet ones. Paul didn’t reciprocate, his lips drawn into a tight line his face tensed. John attempted to deepen the kiss, but Paul’s damned teeth were gritted, not allowing him access.

John tossed Paul’s neck back, letting go harshly. Paul caught himself on his arms.

“The fuck, Paul?” John said angrily. His voice rose.

Paul glared at him, eyes as intimidating as they were beautiful. They were gentle too, their downward tilt, the soft hazel hue. Arousal stirred in John’s gut. It overtook his anger for a moment. He eyed up Paul’s body, the thin dress shirt tucking into dark fitted trousers, accentuating his little waist just right. Those trousers stretched over his hips and ass in a way that drove John mad.

John reached for him, palming where the thick fabric stretched over Paul’s crotch. Paul’s sweet little pecker. 

Paul shook him off.

“What the hell? Fuckin stoppit.” He said.

Paul’s continuous rejections were beginning to really piss John off. 

“You’re pissed, John! M’not gonna fuck ya, so fuck off!” Paul snapped at him. 

“M’fuckin not!” John’s voice was slurred and furious, his voice rising. He was beginning to look crazed.

“Yes you fuckin’ are! Get outta my sight!”

John glared at him, pupils dilated. He looked like a madman, clenching his fists.

“You will listen to me, Paul.” John said, voice dripping with malice, a hateful tone. “You _will_ let me fuck you. You will let me fuck you whenever I want!”

“No ya fuckin’ wont! M’not yer fuckin whore, gonna come runnin' when ya call.” Paul said. 

John was fed up with him. With his stupid pretty face, his stupid little smiles and baby cheeks. Paul was too fucking cheery, and John wanted to wipe it out of him. Fucking Paul and his pride. Motherfucker. Goes about his jolly days fucking broads and singing his silly songs. John was beginning to really get tired of his shit. John wanted him dead.

John grabbed Paul’s long hair, yanking it up, Paul winced, trying to get away.

Paul’s heart nearly stopped when the lit end of John’s cigarette made contact with the side of his neck.

Before the pain hit, he was in shock. Paul couldn’t believe it.

Then the pain hit him. Paul shrieked. _John was burning his neck!_

John’s hand came down, docking him in the gut. 

_Paul hadn’t even fucking hit him!_ Before, Paul was always the one to throw the first blow. Paul was only trying to get him to stop! Stop!

Paul looked at him with fear, mouth ajar and lip quivering. He didn’t cry, but it was too fucking much, the pain, fucking all of it.

He’d seen John as an angry drunk before, but it had never been directed at him to this extent. Especially with the recent developments, John would always speak to him sickly sweet, trying to make Paul come around. That hadn’t worked. 

Paul didn’t want a fight. He just wanted John to leave him alone. He was so fucking tired of fighting him off. It didn’t matter. John would always win, Paul having to submit to it for the sake of the group. None of it fucking mattered!

John grinned in satisfaction, relishing in the control he had over Paul in this moment. He gave another blow, just for the power. Paul cried out.

“Fucking cunt you are, Macca. Fucking tired of yer shit.”

John yanked his hair higher, Paul coming up with it. Tears streamed down his soft cheeks, face contorted with pain. Paul didn’t care about pride anymore. He didn’t fucking care. His breath was inconsistent and unreliable, shuddering with his sobs.

“I wonder…” John drew out, salivating.

He was eating Paul with his eyes, looking over him, over his body, like food. There wasn’t any affection in them, Paul realised. There had been before. Now, John was looking at Paul like a piece of meat.

“...what you’d look like with marks _all over_ yer pretty white skin.”

Fucking ungrateful Paul. If he was going to be miserable anyway, why should John hold back? John _had_ been holding back, trying to make Paul _enjoy_ it, trying to be _gentle, ease_ Paul into it. Paul didn’t fucking give a shit. Fine then. John hungered for Paul on a deep primal level, and with that came intensity. 

He wanted to fuck Paul so hard it hurt. John wanted to bite and claw at him until Paul _knew_ who owned that lovely body. It wasn’t the birds Paul fucked, the men who lusted after him, or even fucking Jane Asher. It was John.

John sharply yanked Paul’s hair up to make him cry out again. It was nasally from the sobbing. He tugged up Paul’s shirt, pulling it out from where it tucked into his trousers, exposing his soft gentle stomach and immaculate chest.

John pressed the cigarette into Paul’s navel and he screamed. Fresh tears of pain pricked hot at Paul’s eyes. He couldn’t move away with John’s firm grip on his hair.

“Don’t! Fucking don’t!” Paul shrieked. His voice was broken up and unsteady. It made John look back at his face.

John looked crazed. He wasn’t angry, but looked at him madly, a frenzied smile on his face. John was fucking enjoying this. The fucking bastard was _getting off_ to this.

Paul’s eyes were wide and teary, pleading. He’d given up on being stoic or fighting back. His lower lip trembled and he let out terrified little breaths. Paul must’ve looked pathetic, but by god did he _feel_ pathetic. He tried desperate to reach the real John, deep inside there. John cared about him! He did! He did! Oh Christ...Paul wanted to think he did.

John smiled wider. He loved it. He had complete power over Paul in this present moment. Little Bambi, submitting to him. It should’ve always been this way.

Thinking it over, John did love that Paul wasn’t a demure little woman, and he didn’t want Paul to be. It made this moment all the sweeter. He’d broken him down. 

“C’mon, Paul. You like this.” John teased. 

John burnt Paul’s stomach again. He must be trying to get Paul ot scream.

Paul couldn’t help it. He let out another strangled cry.

“Don’!” Paul cried. He sobbed harder. 

By some grace of God, John let him go. Paul slumped over, gripping the duvet.

John grabbed him by the back of his shirt, lifting him up again. Paul’s heart raced, the momentary relief gone. He struggled in the grip.

John stood up, then tossed Paul at the wall, Paul bracing the impact on his forearms. Before he could jump back, John was on him, pressing him to the wall.

Paul was fucking taller than him. A centimeter, but that was enough. John was so satisfied, making him so afraid, making Paul seem smaller. He shivered and shook, completely petrified as John pushed him against it. Paul’s skin burnt where the cigarette was pressed into him, his scalp sore from the pulling, his gut aching from the blows.

John’s chest pressed firmly against his back. He wrapped his hands around Paul’s body, fumbling to undo his fly. 

“Don’t, don’t…” Paul cried pitifully, eyes staring upwards, seeing nothing. His sight was blurred, tears collecting on his lower lashes. 

“Shhhh.”

John shushed him fucking playfully, as if they were having a friendly rumble.

He tugged Paul’s trousers lower, exposing him to the cold air as his weight bore down on him, Paul bracing his forearms against the wall.

John spat over his fingers, trying to get them wet.

He shoved one into Paul, prompting a yell.

“Quiet. Hush now.” John slurred, unsympathetic, dismissive. 

“It fuckin’ hurts! Fucking don’t!” Paul shrieked. 

It wasn’t enough. Spit wasn’t fucking enough. The fingers felt like daggers being forced inside him. John was even moving too quickly, adding more too quickly, moving too impatiently. John used to take his time, but now he just wanted to get inside him.

To make matters worse, Paul wasn’t anywhere near relaxed. He was tense as all hell, his muscles frozen, shaking himself to death.

John forced in a third finger and Paul screeched. Out of reflex, he elbowed John hard.

John grabbed the back of Paul’s hair, yanking it back harshly, before slamming Paul’s forehead into the wall.

Paul screamed. He was shocked before he registered the pain. What…?

Pain bloomed throughout Paul’s forehead. It hurt so fucking badly. The tears of pain started again. The pain was white-hot, blood rushing to the area. Luckily, it wasn’t his nose or teeth that got hit. It likely wouldn’t show. Maybe a bruise, hidden under his bangs. Why? John...Why…?

“Touch me again and I’ll fuckin’ kill ya! You know I fuckin will!” John hollered at him

Paul cried out again. Once the pain in his head turned to a dull throb, he was hyper aware of the pain being inflicted to his ass. John hadn’t let up, perhaps even rougher than before. Paul was sick with the emotion also. He thought John cared for him in his own sick way. John said he would be kind to him. Paul cried.

“Shuttup. You fuckin love’it.” John muttered.

Paul shook his head furiously and choked back sobs. His breathing was horribly erratic, from the pain, from the harsh words. He was terrified and in horrible pain. There was horrible pain everywhere.

John pulled himself out, not too pissed to get hard apparently. He slid up and down the line of Paul’s perfect rear, arousal stirring inside him.

“S’not enough! John! John!” Paul shouted in desperation.

John grabbed Paul’s jaw, harshly pushing it shut, hands digging into the soft fat of Paul’s face. It made Paul bite his tongue and he cried.

“Shuttup if ya know what’s good for ya.” John grumbled dismissively.

Paul began to shake his head again, his cheeks wet from all the tears. John jerked his body again hard. At least he didn’t slam Paul’s head back into the wall.

“Quiet...Ungrateful _cunt…_ : John seethed. There was only contempt in his voice, none of the adoration or faux-gentleness that John spoke to him with during these times.

John gripped into Paul’s hips, tight enough to leave bruises, feel his fingers dig into the fat. He shifted his attention to the task of hand. He lined himself up with Paul’s tight entrance, applying pressure.

Paul shrieked again out of horror at what John was planning to do. He was much too afraid to speak out, be struck again, but he dreaded the horrible pain that was about to be inflicted on him.

John pushed inside, more effort required without the lubrication.

Paul screamed, but none of it got through to John. He screamed so loud that the whole floor should be able to hear.

No...they had the whole fucking floor to themselves. They had _fucking_ made it, hadn’t they?

It was horrible. Horrible. Paul felt like a dagger was being forced into him.

The dry friction was addicting. John pushed harder, wanting to get on with fucking his pretty friend already.

Paul yelled as John began to fuck into him. John wasn’t being as gentle as he normally was. Screw Paul. John had been gentle all this time, but Paul didn’t fucking care. Paul would be this way no matter what, so John should just ravish him like he wanted. 

Paul screamed again, the organ being forced into his dry insides. His voice turned John on all the more. A fucking sexy set of lungs Paul had. John could listen to him scream all day.

“Scream, damn whore.” John giggled, saying it as if it were a term of endearment. “Let the whole buildin’ hear yer lovely voice.”

Paul cried and sobbed, getting fucked into the wall. His palms were flat against it, attempting to ground himself. He clawed at it, his whole body shaking furiously. John wasn’t letting up. His voice only got more desperate.

“Shh, shh, Paul.” John groaned. It seems that being inside Paul had taken off the edge in his voice. “C’mon pretty baby.”

John grabbed him by the waist, and Paul’s heart stalled. He swung Paul over to the bed, luckily landing on the mattress.

Paul scrambled when he fell, flipping himself over to his back and attempting to crawl backwards. He wanted to get away. He had to get away. His eyes were frantic and wide, looking at John in terror. His pretty legs were shaking. His whole body really, his lip quivering. Heavy tears were streaming from his lovely eyes. Paul didn’t cry, but these were tears of pain.

John hovered over him, leaning hungrily over Paul’s horrified body. John always looked at him with hunger, sometimes with clear furious lust, but it was nothing like this. Dammit, John didn’t even look human, with that horrible grin on his face, pupils blown, mad eyes. It was beyond horrifying for a look like that to be directed at him. By John no less. His fucking brother.

“Come on, pretty Macca. Pretty lovely Macca. Come here, baby.”

Paul began to sob out of misery, the first time he’d allowed himself to. He mourned the friend he thought he’d had. John didn’t even have the care to not hurt him. This had made it apparent.

Paul tried to scramble away, still sobbing with all his accumulated misery, but John grabbed his shin, so tight he couldn’t even pull it away. His body was weak. His soul was weak. He couldn’t do this anymore. Fear overtook him again as John’s grip tightened, pulling Paul closer.

“No more! Don’t! John! John!!” He cried as he tugged it desperately.

John giggled, as if it were all one big joke. He tugged off Paul’s sock.

Paul’s heart stopped. John fucking bit him...on the foot… on his sole.

What…?

A jerk reflex, Paul kicked out. It wasn’t even hard, only knocking John in the face, taking him by surprise. It wouldn’t have hurt.

Still, rage flashed against John’s face, if only for Paul’s audacity. He grabbed Paul’s ankle, digging his nails into it, making it hurt on purpose. Paul cried.

“Ya jus’ don’ fuckin learn!” John snapped, then his voice turned incredulous. “Is it that yer _stupid,_ Mac‘artney? I sometimes fuckin’ wonder!”

It was like a slap to the face.

Paul’s voice died in his throat, his heart sinking in his chest. What…?

John glared at him, still hateful.

“...what?” Paul said, voice weaker than it’d ever been.

What…?

“Do ya even fuckin think, Macca?” John continued, voice turning mirthful. He mimicked Paul’s voice “Stupid voice of yers... _y’know, y’know, yknow..._ ”

John began to grin, finding humor in it.

“S’that all ya can say? _Y’know…?_ ” John taunted. “All you write are stupid little love songs, stupid empty little phrases. It’s all been done before!”

John jabbed a finger at Paul’s forehead.

“Anything going on in there? I fuckin wonder!”

John began to laugh. 

“Ya fuckin dolt...with yer gigglin’, an smiling’ at every little fuckin’ thing. Fuckin’ makes you look easy. Stupid little face. All you do is fuck...all you think about is gettin’ yer prick wet...fuckin’ whore...fuckin disgust in’, you are...nothin in there but sex and fluff. No wonder nobody’ll take ya seriously!”

John began to laugh harder, face crazed with amusement. 

“They all know’it!” John exclaimed with giddy amusement “...Yer only good for _one thing,_ Paul!”

John began to laugh and laugh and laugh, heaving breaths. 

Paul felt completely emptied.

What..?

John didn’t only just look at him like a piece of meat, but didn’t even see him as an equal. Paul thought John had respect for him at least. _At least._ As his partner.

Maybe that’s all John thought of him, keeping him around, because of that _one thing._ That’s all Paul was to him.

He lay there numb. He couldn’t feel his fingers. Paul barely felt alive. He stared at nothing. He felt like he was descending down a spiral. Lower and lower. Falling into nothingness.

Paul’s leg was grabbed and pulled.

John shoved his fingers inside, thrusting them roughly. Paul screamed again, fresh tears of pain. The fucking pain was back.

“Stopit! Stopit! John!” He shrieked. It didn’t feel like his voice, simply a reaction to the pain. Paul felt like a spectator looking in.

“Take’it already. Ya know ya like’t, Macca.”

Paul shook his head frantically, more shouts escaping him. His eyes were shut tight as he cried out.

“That fuckin voice of yers. Yeah, Paul, let the whole city hear ya scream for me. They’ll know who ya belong to.”

Paul paid no attention to the words. His ass was being fucking torn apart, and John was still shoving fingers into him. He could only scream and scream.

John’s eyes found a hand mirror on the nightstand. These fancy hotels with their intricate hand mirrors. They were for ladies to do their faces up with. Paul fucking used them, fixing his hair up and the like. Paul was such a fucking bird, always doing that kinda bird shit. He was immaculate, always making sure not a hair was out of place, not a wrinkle in his suit.

The way he moved, Paul’s little mannerisms, the way he crossed his legs, the way he moved his hands as he spoke, his little impressions. Such a fucking bird, Paul was. He was practically begging John to fuck him. 

Paul was simply begging for it. The fucking whore. The fucking slut. Paul wanted to get fucked every second of the fucking day, by birds or otherwise. He wanted his prick sucked, and to get ridden, to get a handie. If he couldn’t, he’d whack off, making his strangled sounds, stifled by his lips. Paul was a fucking tart. He always wanted it. About time John finally took him.

John took the dainty mirror in his hand, looking it over, an evil grin on his face.

Paul was frozen on the bed, eyes shut tight, teeth tightly gritted. His heart must be beating out of his chest, too terrified to move or even think. His chest heaved erratically as he breathed.

John flipped him over to his stomach, and Paul scrambled, trying to regain his grounding. John saw that perfect rear, and brought down the back of the hand mirror on it. Paul screamed. His voice was getting a bit scratchy from it. 

The mirror was fucking cold, the metal intricacies making the blow worse than a smooth surface would be. John brought it down again, and Paul screeched. John liked getting those fucking sounds out of him. Fucking sadistic.

Paul laid still, his face clammy, a brief moment of nothing, then…

Paul screamed and shouted. John was shoving it inside him! The fucking handle! It was cold as hell, it didn’t have the give John did, forcing its way inside. Fucking hell! Fucking shit! Paul dry heaved. It stirred up his inside. It hurt! It fucking hurt!

“That’ll show ya, prideful cunt.” John said mirthfully, still finding the fucking _humor_ in it. “Always lookin’ at yerself, like a fuckin’ bird. Yer a fuckin’ whore, Paul! Nothing more, nothing less! Ya fuckin love this.”

John was goddamned fucking him with it as Paul cried. Why? Why? Why?

Paul curled into himself, burying his head in his hands. He couldn’t stop screaming as he cried. His throat was becoming raw. The metal of the hand mirror’s handle was cold and it stung. It fucking stung.

Just as swiftly as he put it in, John yanked it out, mindlessly tossing it on the neighboring bed.

John crabbed Paul’s hips, rubbing his hands up Paul’s back callously. He squeezed hard at the fat on his sides, then pushed his hips hard to Paul’s rear.

John was _still_ hard, fucking aroused by Paul’s misery. He ran it up and down the crease of Paul’s ass, taunting him with the thought of getting fucked again. If it was even possible, Paul’s heart sped up.

“No!” Paul shrieked in vain.

“M’gonna fuck ya again,” John mumbled amorously, voice thick with lust. “Fuckin hell you’ve got a good cunt, Paul! The best I’ve ever had!!”

John pushed it in again in one swift motion. Paul screamed even louder than before, ripping through his torn up throat.

  
“Scream, bitch! Fuckin scream, why don’t ya? Like in yer fuckin songs...fuckin tart...shaking yer little head, shrieking like a bird.”

John giggled, his voice much too giddy.

“Fuckin _Long Tall Sally_ today! Nearly killed’me! Wanted to fuck ya on the stage, let all them watch, don’ care. Been wantin’ to make ya scream like tha’ ever since ya started singing that’un! Scream while m’fuckin knob goes up into ya! Well!”

  
John gave a crazed laugh, then brought his hand down on Paul’s arse. Paul’s cry nearly died in his throat, the significance of John’s words hitting him.

Paul had been singing that one...for fucking _years!_ John had been wanting to do this to him...for fucking _years!_ It was all a fucking lie. All of it. All this time...all John saw him as was his little _slut._ Paul was a piece of fucking _ass_ to John this _whole fucking time!_

It hurt. It hurt so much. Even more than the pain. John didn’t fucking care about him. He never fucking did. His friends didn’t give a shit either. They didn’t fucking _help_ him. Paul cried and cried.

John got harsher and rougher. Paul couldn’t breath. His fingers felt numb, his vision becoming blurred. It felt like he wasn’t there. Paul was lightheaded. Everything fucking hurt.

John fucked him harder. Paul screamed from the depths of his soul, the pain behind his eyes, everywhere. His stomach and chest. Fucking everywhere.

John began to bite his neck, drawing blood, leaving deep marks. He bit and bit at it. He wanted Paul to see them and know why they were there, need to cover them up. The redness and bruises bloomed beautifully on his pale skin.

Not one touch from John was gentle. Every single one was done to hurt Paul, get more noises out of his scratched up throat. John tugged harshly at his chest, aware how sensitive Paul was there. He dug his nails hard into the pink sensitive puffies. Paul shrieked. John clawed at his skin, leaving marks, Pulling at his soft dark hair. He squeezed hard at Paul’s fat, making it bruise.

The worst of it was when John remembered to pay attention to Paul’s knob. It was fucking erect. Paul didn’t know how the hell he was hard. He hurt so badly. Everything fucking hurt. John took smug satisfaction in it, Paul’s arousal validating his delusions. He mocked and jeered at Paul, calling him a whore, a filthy slut.

“Don’t want it, eh? Well!” John roared, burning with hilarity. “Yer a fuckin dolt Macca! Of course ya want it! Ya always want it!”

Paul could only sob.

John wasn’t even gentle with his sensitive organ. Paul dry heaved at every rough touch to his knob. Not _there!_ Not fucking _there!_ John was horrible with it, tugging harshly, squeezing it hard. The pain shot straight right through his gut, the sensations forcing sick pleasure into him. Paul didn’t want it! It hurt so fucking badly! _Why. Why. Why._

John dug a fingernail into his slit, Paul’s cockhead swollen, red, and irritated. Paul made an ugly choked shout, tears running down his cheeks.

“Stopit!” Paul choked through the sobs.

Paul didn’t know how long it lasted. Every time he felt a hint of orgasm, John’s grip on his prick would become painful, making him unable to cum through the pain. 

It felt like a blur once it was over. Paul couldn’t recall John finishing, but after an indeterminate amount of time, it slid out of his ravaged entrance, John’s fluids coming out with it.

Paul’s body slumped to the mattress the moment John’s hands left him.

Paul couldn’t move.

More than anything, he felt completely empty. His ears rang.

Paul couldn’t move. He lay on the bed immoble.

Where even was he. Who was he? Nothing felt real.

The fame felt unreal, their success, every song that got on the charts, the hoards of people that came to see them.

It was nothing compared to this. Paul didn’t even feel like he was in his body. He felt like he was drifting away, his whole being.

Paul couldn’t breathe. He tried to. He needed air to live. Paul’s vision was unreliable. It blurred and darkened. It hurt. It all hurt.

Paul’s mind was shot to hell. He couldn’t think of what’d just happened to him. It was too much to bear. Even if Paul wanted to, his mind blocked it out.

His whole body hurt. It hurt so badly he couldn’t even think or articulate it. His head spun. He was so dizzy, as if he were on a carnival ride. It spun and spun. 

He regained feeling in his fingers. They twitched. He couldn’t move much more than that. His skin felt hot, and cold. It felt bruised and battered. Fucking torn apart.

It was too difficult to stay cognisant. Paul didn’t even think he wanted to. It was too much. It was all too much. He didn’t even feel anything. He didn’t feel sad or angry, not even making anything of the pain. He was consumed with an absence, the aftershocks of the things done to him coursing through his body, but his mind was miles away.

John had said he wouldn’t hurt him. That’s what John had said. He promised that at the very least. 

Paul didn’t recall when it happened, but his mind faded to black.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking brutal man, sorry. I don’t hate either of these guys, I swear. 
> 
> While I was editing I was thinking to myself “What the fuck? Who the fuck wrote this? Did I really write this?” There’s a bit of disconnect here for me too, lads.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped the previous chapter after the cutoff, John returns to their suite drunk and when Paul rejects him, he takes out his pent up anger and frustration on him. It leaves Paul in a terrible state.

The moment Paul arose, the first thing that hit him was the pain.

There was a dull pain...present throughout his entire body.

At first, Paul had no memory of it. He had slept a dead man’s sleep, and upon waking, it took him a moment to remember where he was, or who he was. It was a rather peaceful feeling.

Paul didn’t move, nor did he open his eyes. He felt peaceful.

A hand was laid gingerly on his shoulder. Paul grimaced.

“Paul…”

It was John’s voice. It sounded pained, completely consumed by guilt, worried to speak an octave higher.

The sleep gave Paul’s mind a sort of factory reset, but once he heard John’s voice, the instinct to be afraid overtook him. Paul tensed up, but he couldn’t move or open his eyes.

  
It was funny. As recently as three months ago, John’s voice would've given him the exact opposite reaction. The familiarity of his friend’s intonation. It would’ve meant he was alright, bringing him back to reality after a deep sleep.

The hand was removed from Paul’s shoulder. Paul felt eyes on his body.

“No, no, no, no…” John kept repeating in a harsh whisper, voice as weak as Paul felt.

Paul realized he was unclothed, the nip of the room’s cold air hitting his skin. It would've been nicer to be under the duvet. 

Paul rarely ever heard this tone from John, maybe never before. The closest thing Paul could compare it to was those few months John was constantly calling up his now wife, begging for her forgiveness. 

It was a few years back. She’d danced with another man one night. Only danced. It got back to John. He’d gone to her dorm room completely furious. John said nothing to her when she opened the door. He simply gave a firm blow to her head, and she landed on a metal bar on the way down.

John did everything to regain her affection, begging and pleading, promising he’d never do it again. She eventually forgave him, and everything carried on the way it did. They were married now with a kid.

“No, no, no…” John kept repeating. It sounded like he was close to tears, such a weak tone. It sounded so out of place in his usually coarse voice. “... I hurt your pretty  _ skin _ ...Oh  _ Christ _ … _ Paul... _ ”

A hand was laid tenderly on Paul’s chest, perhaps to try and soothe him. Paul’s eyes shot open and he screamed.

It stung, the light touch. It hurt. Why did his whole body hurt? Paul recoiled at his scream. His fucking lungs hurt. His throat burnt, as if he had been screaming all night.

Paul’s skin was sore, so were his muscles. His bones hurt, even. It was as if he had been run through the wringer.

When Paul’s eyes shot open, his head throbbed dully in pain. His hand shot to his temple, wincing.

Once his vision stopped blurring so terribly, Paul squinted his eyes, peeing around the room.

His eyes landed on John. 

John’s face looked completely broken, full of hurt, remorse, pity, desperation. He looked at Paul so miserably. John looked weaker than Paul had seen since, an expression that’d never been directed at  _ him _ anyway.

Fuck. It all came back to him.

The fucking night before. That fucking night. What John fucking did to him.

Paul could hardly bear to remember it. The images and memory of the horrible pain flashed through his head. What John had done to him, what John had  _ said  _ to him. Doing everything he could to destroy everything Paul was holding onto, _ humiliate _ him to the best of his ability. It hurt. It hurt his head. Paul’s ears rang.

John began fucking blubbering, whatever came to his mind spilling out without eloquence.

“Paul...Paul...no, no. It’s alright...You’re alright...I’ll  _ never... _ Oh  _ Christ _ ...I swear... _ never _ ...I’ll fix this, I fucking  _ swear. _ ” John’s voice began to break. “ _ Anything... _ Christ. I’ll do  _ anything... _ I’m so sorry...I’m so  _ sorry… _ ”

Paul didn’t look at him. He couldn’t even look at him. His whole body hurt. This was _ nothing  _ compared to whatever John was doing to him before. This was worse than anything Paul could’ve fathomed. His fucking brother...Hadn’t John said he wouldn’t hurt him? That’s what he’d promised, at the very least. John had even broke that.

This wasn’t something somebody would do to their friend. Somebody you cared for. 

Christ...the things John had said to him…

This wasn’t even something you’d even inflict upon your worst enemy. These were the actions only the worst kind of deplorable person would take. This shouldn’t be something inflicted upon  _ anybody. _ Paul couldn’t even bear to remember it.

Paul couldn’t stop the images and memories running through his head. It hurt to think of, the effects still present in his aching body. His gut hurt where John had hit him. It would bruise. His head throbbed, his scalp sore from his hair being yanked, it stung where he’d been burnt. 

Paul’s ass was in even worse condition. Thinking of that was not even, painful, but humiliating. An entrance not even made for it had been ravaged, toyed with as if it were a cunt. John truly hadn’t seen him as nothing but a fucktoy that night. A punching bag to release his frustration onto.

Funnily enough, Paul’s face wasn’t hit. His lips were swollen, his body battered, but not one blow was laid on his face. Was that all of Paul’s value to him? His fucking face?

John kept fucking groveling. Paul had been tuning it out.

“I’ll make it right...I swear.  _ Anything, _ Paul. Name it and it’s yours... _ Anything... _ ”

John’s hands reached for him again, trying to console him, but Paul flinched away. For the first goddamn time in his life, John backed off.

“Paul...Paul...I’ll never, I’m so sorry... It won’t happen again, I swear, Paul. I’ll do  _ anything... _ I fucking swear! I’ll never lay a hand on you again. I didn’t mean it! I _ swear… _ ”

It all came back to John as well, the horrible  _ horrible _ things he’d said. He didn’t mean  _ any _ of it. He was just so  _ angry.  _ That fucking temper of his, the alcohol. John barely remembered doing it, it didn’t feel like his memory. He didn’t just hurt Paul, he’d told him to his face...that he was only good for...Christ! He’d told him he was _ only good for one thing...! _

John hardly felt human. How could he do this? His hands were shaking. He didn’t know what he could even say. If he didn’t before, Paul definitely would never love him again, the way he did before. How could he do this? Why?

“I was talking out of my ass. None of it,  _ none of’t _ was true! I swear to fuckin god I didn’t  _ mean’it!  _ Oh Paul...Oh Christ...It’s not what I think of ya. I  _ swear!  _ I fuckin’  _ swear! _ Any of’t! Yer not…”

John was blubbering, making a fool of himself, begging for forgiveness. Paul had seen it before. Without inhibitions, that was all Paul was to him. A fucking whore. His fucktoy. John didn’t care for him. John lusted after him. He was nothing to John.

Paul felt empty. All he felt was resentment for John. His body was hurt, his soul as well. God forget his pride. He’d lost that as well. Paul didn’t care anymore. About the group, success. What was the fucking use of it. Paul wanted to rest, sleep it all away. Paul was so tired.

He curled into himself. Paul didn’t feel like crying. He’d cried enough last night. He tried to feel any sense of physicality. He shook again, holding himself. His body was hurt, but at least it was his. It drew in so many others, even though Paul didn’t want it to. He didn’t want men to crave him. Both genders did, the perfect blend of masculinity and femininity, Paul’s features appealed to either’s gaze. 

They had a fucking show that night, then a press conference the next morning. Paul didn’t even want to speak, much less answer mind numbing questions. Maybe he’d be alright if he didnt’ move, only curl within himself and shut it all out.

“Paul…Paul...Paul...Christ. Paul, no, it’s alright. You’ll be alright. I promise it’ll stop hurting. I promise. Please let me make it better.”

Paul blocked out the voice. He despised the sound of it. It only brought him back to every terrible thing John had done to him, that very same voice taunting and jeering at him, like Paul wasn’t even human. John had groped him, bitten him, fucked him, beat him.

“C’mon Paul...c’mon pretty baby…” John said, his tone as gentle as he could muster in his rough voice. “You poor thing.”

Paul’s head rang. He was immersed in the darkness behind his eyelids, John’s fucking voice cutting through. He shivered more, teeth gritted hard.

Paul couldn’t understand the words. Perhaps John could tell, putting more focused on softening his voice, hoping the tone itself would offer comfort. The sounds reached his ears, but weren’t put together in his mind. John’s voice was rather soft, almost singing to him.

_ Right from paradise, I know that you’re an angel... _

Despite how he tried, John’s fear and regret cut through his harsh voice, trying his best to sound gentle. The saccharine lyrics sounded awfully out of place as Paul’s body ached.

_ Heaven is in your eyes...The smile from your lips brings the summer sunshine, the tears from your eyes bring the rain… _

Paul’s head kept ringing. His head felt empty. He had to not think to keep himself sane. The sound in the otherwise quiet room was the only thing Paul could focus on as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

_ I feel your touch, your warm embrace...and I’m in heaven again. _

_ Sent from up above...the Lord smiled down on me...and sent an angel to love… _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is Bobby Helm’s “My Special Angel” from 1957. Pretty solid one.


	15. Chapter 15

Paul must’ve fallen back under, as when he awoke, John’s voice was gone.

His body still hurt, but less sharply than before. Simply a dull pain, all over his body.

Paul realized why he came to, the door was creaking open.

He froze up. No, John was back. No, no, no, no, no-

“Hello?” A voice said.

Paul instantly felt the tension melt from his body. It was George. He wanted to sob from relief. A familiar voice, a familial voice.

“Paul? Are ya good? We’ve gotta show in a few hours. Are ya sick again?”

Paul didn’t respond. Very slowly, as much as his body would allow, he sat up, keeping the blankets wrapped around him. George was in the doorway, looking at him with a slight concern. 

“John said ya weren’t feeling well.”

Paul looked at him foggily. His heart warmed at the sight of him. Good old George. 

George wouldn’t do a thing to hurt him. Such a familiar face. George had a distinct presence, different from John, with his gangly body and dramatic eyebrows. He was a more comforting presence, his voice less harsh, his humorous nature. Paul had known him so long, longer than John. George was his little brother.

George turned his head away upon seeing him. They weren’t shy about this sort of thing, after all they’d done and been through together, but it was different catching glimpses whilst changing and carrying on a conversation whilst one of you were nude.

“Er, sorry.” George said, a bit embarrassed. “Thought you was already dressed. I can come back.”

Paul’s heart sank, the comfort of his friend’s presence about to be taken from him. He didn’t want to be alone again. It wasn’t that he was afraid, but the isolation was suffocating. Paul needed somebody to stay with him, somebody kind. He needed George to stay with him.

Paul was quick to speak up.

“It’s alright! Stay a moment, please. Please.” Paul said.

Paul’s voice seemed uncharacteristically desperate. George knew something wasn’t right. It made him more concerned.

“Alright. Okay.” He said, trying to keep his voice calm.

There was a silence. George shifted awkwardly, trying to not look directly at him.

Suddenly, he heard Paul’s voice again. It was sweet and low, yet with an uncertainty.

“Can I hear somethin’ from you?” Paul said under his breath.

George cleared his throat.

“What is it?”

Paul hesitated.

“You...you care for me...don’t ya?”

George was taken aback by the question. His eyes flitted to Paul, if only for a split second. He refrained from staring too much, but Paul’s tone of voice was much too vulnerable. There were no layers of irony, no humor in it. 

“Uh, Of’course I do.” George said hesitantly. It was known, but they didn’t go about saying it. That wasn’t something said to mates.

Paul was still silent.

George could tell Paul wasn’t right at all. Everything about his demeanor was wrong. Paul was cheery, confident, most of the time. He seemed vulnerable and empty at the moment. It was very worrying to see. It wasn’t right at all.

“Come closer.” Paul said. It wasn’t forceful in the least. It was timid. Paul was asking.

Paul wouldn’t ever act this way. It was quite jarring.

George’s eyes moved to Paul for the first time. Paul was looking at him dazedly, a bit sadly. George’s worry only increased. This was all wrong.

George wasn’t stupid. He knew that Paul had been acting off. He seemed more downcast, more on edge. George had wondered if it was the stress. Paul always did push himself quite hard. 

George had taken it upon himself to speak to Ringo about it, then to John when he got back. They’d tried to sit Paul down to help him, but Paul had only blown up on them.

George came a touch closer, closing the door behind him.

George got more worried upon getting a better look at Paul’s condition. There was a bruise on his forehead. George wouldn’t have seen it if Paul’s bangs weren’t parted a slight amount. George’s eyes shifted downward...there was a burn on Paul’s neck...

“Christ...what happened to ya?” George muttered. The concern grew on his face. Hell, he was worried for his friend.

Paul shook his head, brushing it off.

“I was out.” he said. “Drank a bit too much, got hurt, y’know.”

“...I see.” George said. 

Paul bit his lip.

“Closer. Please.” 

George made over slowly. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing his friend. He wondered why Paul was unclothed. Maybe the bird had left already. It was already late morning. 

Paul had the duvet wrapped around himself, but relaxed the hold, exposing a bit of his collarbone. George looked away.

“I know s’not supposed to be said...but I gotta hear it. Please.”

George looked back at his friend. Paul was looking at him with a pleading expression, such a vulnerable expression. George’s mind was racing, trying to figure out what was going on with him. When had Paul’s change in demeanor happen…? _Was_ it the pressure?

“What?” George said. He didn’t feel like the sounds were coming from his lips.

Paul seemed unsure, but he still spoke the words.

“Could ya tell me...uhm…” Paul trailed off. His pretty eyes flitted to the side, then wet his lips before continuing. “Do ya...er, do ya love me, George?”

George was even more taken aback than before. Out of all things to hear Paul say, that wasn’t what he’d expected.

“What, what do ya mean?” George said, face feeling hot.

Paul shook his head again, lips drawn tight.

“No, no.” Paul said. “I mean in the normal way. I know we don’ say’it...s’a soft thing ta say, but, I need to hear’it. As a brother, y’know?”

George’s shoulders relaxed. He was still worried though. It was a strange request.

“Oh.” George said, making his voice reassuring. “Well, yes. Of course. You know I do.”

Paul’s face seemed more uncertain, looking at George with drawn eyebrows. 

“Could ya...say’it? Please…”

Such an odd request. It was obvious that they were all brothers, but they didn’t say things such as that. It was not said. 

If it could help him though, George would.

“Uh, yes. I do...love ya.” George’s tone was awkward, though genuine. He gave Paul a quick smile of reassurance. “Good?”

Paul’s mouth opened, then closed. He tried again.

“With my name...please.”

George looked away. It was hard looking him in the eye. Paul wasn’t even clothed. It was all very strange.

“Yes alright.” George said. “Alright, yes. I love ya...Paul…?”

Paul’s lips parted in a small smile. That made George feel better, but his eyes still looked sad. He looked so vulnerable, making these strange requests...for reassurance.

It endeared George, but once that feeling hit, he felt even worse. Here was his friend, unclothed besides the duvet wrapped around him, asking George to say that he loved him, and George was getting flustered. 

Perhaps it was Paul’s vulnerability. Paul was always so controlling and hyperactive. George knew Paul loved him, but did seem to treat him as a “little brother,” not taking him seriously at times. 

There was Lennon-McCartney, and then George played lead guitar. He’d written one song, and sang “Roll Over Beethoven” during performances. He would’ve liked to have more pull, but he didn’t mind much. They’d made him a big star, hadn’t they?

The vulnerability...it wasn’t a look Paul often directed toward him. 

Paul kept staring at him in his odd way.

Paul wet his lips.

“George...woudja, uh.” Paul began. His eyes were still in a daze.

He paused a long while, thinking. George fidgeted with his hands. He had long fingernails and knobbly fingers. They were good for his guitar playing. It seemed that every bit of him was lanky. His eyes kept flitting away from Paul, trying not to look for too long. It felt invasive, with the duvet relaxing around his neck, showing his collarbone.

Paul looked at the ground, then back up at George. He wet his lips again.

“Woudja kiss me?”

If George wasn’t taken aback before, he sure as hell was now. He gawked at Paul. Paul’s voice was uneven and unsure. He was asking so tentatively.

George wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right.

“What?” He said.

“Please.” Paul said, even quieter. “Jus’ one…”

George knew how Paul flirted by now. It was nothing like this. Paul wasn’t coming onto him. He was asking, quite tentatively at that. 

With women, Paul was confident. He didn’t even have to do anything, they’d be putty in his hands with a single look from those lidded eyes.

George still couldn’t understand what Paul was saying. If Paul was simply taking the piss out of him, it surely didn’t seem like it.

“Wh-you sure? Why?”

“Please…”

His voice was so small.

It was a very very strange request, yet George could tell something was very wrong. Just a quick one. Okay. If it could help Paul...whatever strange thing that was happening with him...George wanted to help his friend.

“Okay...okay…” George said very quietly.

He looked to the side, then bit his tongue. Just a quick one, to help his friend. It would be only a second then done. He brought his face closer, then pressed a very brief, light kiss to Paul’s petal lips.

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Paul’s lips were very delicate and warm, very soft to kiss. There was a gentleness to his features that made it less strange. But still, though the press railed on him for his femininity, Paul wasn’t a woman, and couldn’t pass for one.

And yet, in that brief second, George enjoyed it. It worried him.

When he pulled back, Paul’s eyes slowly opened, gazing at him softly, dazedly. There was a certain sadness there as well, though not very strong. It was all horribly jarring. Paul was such a vibrant presence normally. 

“Thank’ya.” Paul said quietly after a brief pause.

  
George tried to make his voice softer.

  
“You good?”

Paul’s lips tightened, breaking eye contact.

“Paul?”

Paul had stopped responding again. George sat up, looking to the side. He was aware of Paul’s nudity again, making him feel out of place.

“Look’it me.” Paul said.

George did. Paul was looking at him, a bit...afraid almost. Paul still had the blankets wrapped around him. Paul’s neck was bare, a thicker one. He had an adam’s apple, and George could see a hint of his collarbone, which led into broad shoulders. It was a contrast to his more feminine face.

Paul looked ashamed, breaking the eye contact. He began to slowly, very slowly, lower the duvet from his shoulders.

  
“Hey, hey, ya don’ need to do tha-” George said quickly. His ears were heating up.

Paul’s behavior got stranger with each second, worrying him immensely. He could tell Paul wasn’t trying to seduce him or anything, Paul looked much too vulnerable. He was looking for support, exposing himself.

“Please…” Paul said in a small voice.

George did, looking from the corner of his eye.

Paul had lowered the blanket from around his shoulders, revealing soft pale skin. What had happened to him? What was he trying to achieve?

“Please,” He repeated. Paul’s voice was pleading, so weak.

George had to indulge him. Christ, he was worried.

He glanced at his friend. Paul had lowered the blankets, and sure enough, he was unclothed. Thankfully, the duvet covered his legs and other things below, though the top of Paul’s dark fluffy pubic hair poked from above it. George had seen it before. He’d seen Paul in bathing suits, various stages of undress, but never in this context, purposefully looking in clear light. The situation made it stranger. 

“M’looking.” George said sheepishly.

“I’m...alright?” Paul said.

George was at a loss. He could only stare at Paul.

“Suppose.” George managed to get out. He kept his tone genuine. He knew that if he was dismissive, it would do more harm than good. Paul wasn’t fishing for compliments, simply reassurance.

“Look fine.” George muttered.

Paul bowed his head. George’s heart sank. Was this not what Paul wanted to hear?

“Paul, what’s goin’ on with ya? Is there something wrong?”

Paul didn’t answer. He curled his arms around himself. Now that George was looking, he noticed how soft Paul’s body was, smooth and curved, pale skin, dark hair. It made him question himself. It was all very strange. George was about to avert his eyes before it got weirder, but then he noticed the state Paul’s body was in.

George only got more uneasy. Paul looked a touch roughed up. There were bruises not only on his hips, but peppered along his body. Nail marks were dragged across his chest, bite marks on his neck. Must’ve been a kinky broad with him the night before.

If he wasn’t mistaken, there were small burn marks on his stomach...and the one he’d noticed before on his neck…

“Christ, Paul. You sure nothing happened last night?”

Paul’s face fell. George hadn’t seen a look like this on him before. The question fell on deaf ears. Paul’s breaths began to get more shallow. George wanted to take back the comment, he wanted to help. What could he do?

“M’” Paul began weakly. “...m’ I ugly now?”

Paul bit his lip. He looked so fragile. It was all wrong. His voice was broken, and his eyes were squinted.

“George...I feel ugly. Please tell me. Tell me if I am. I need to know…”

George was dumbfounded. Of course Paul wasn’t _ugly,_ just a bit...roughed up.

He remembered when he’d first met Paul. It was during Paul’s fat phase. He was on the bus, making faces in the window. George hadn’t noticed Paul was watching his reflection, and had thought to himself _we’ve got a real nut on our hands._

George had known him for a good while by now. Paul was the one who’d brought him into the band, even though John had looked down on him because of his age. Paul and him had gone hitchhiking whilst on break that one year. That seemed like so long ago.

Though when he’d first known him, Paul was “fat n’ friendly,” Paul had grown into something quite beautiful. Even George could see that. Paul wasn’t a woman, so George didn’t crave him further, but Paul clearly had a lovely face. He had gentle features, arched dark eyebrows, long eyelashes, softly downturned eyes, and a delicate mouth. It was silly to think otherwise.

“No, no, yer not ugly.” George said. “Of’course not. S’only a few marks…”

George paused before continuing. His voice lowered a touch.

“Er…yer still nice-lookin’...alright?”

Paul’s face lit up again, though not like it normally did. Paul was nowhere near his usual self. Not even close. He gazed up at George with demure wistfulness.

“Y’think so?” He said quietly.

George gave a sharp nod, averting his gaze. Paul’s face fell.

“...y’can’t even look at me.” 

Paul sounded horribly downcast at this. George’s gaze quickly snapped back to him.

“No, no, m’lookin’ see?” George smiled, one of his large ones. It was an endearing grin, though concern still shown on his face. 

“It’s good! S’alright!” George said.

There was a pause.

“Yer...good, eh?” George faltered, trying to find the words Paul wanted. “...lovely?”

Paul met his eyes. His gaze was questioning, then he parted his lips. 

“...touch me?”

The words fell from his mouth, seeming to even take Paul by surprise.

“Er, what?”

Paul’s expression quickly turned bashful, realizing how it must’ve come off.

“I jus’...” Paul began. He wet his lips. “Nothin’ weird...jus’...feel disgustin’...like nobody’d want to no more.”

George’s mouth was ajar, looking at him with perplexity

“Why?” He said.

Paul looked at him miserably. Such sad eyes, and yet so lovely.

“Please.”

George gave a quick nod. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, laying it on Paul’s shoulder. Paul’s eyes fell shut. He seemed to lean into it.

“Better?” George said.

“Mmm.” Paul hummed. Such a deep voice, but no less sweet than deep.

Paul’s skin was warm and smooth. It was all very strange. It was nice against his hand, not delicate like a woman's, but still so soft. The skin was pale, beauty marks along the shoulder and neck. Paul’s neck itself wasn’t like a woman’s. Much too thick.

Maybe George was dreaming. It all felt out of place. His long fingers twitched where his hand rested. 

George was worried for the state of it. That soft skin...was marked up. Bite marks, harsh ones. Maybe the bird was too rough with him. George knew it all too well. The girls loved them, but they took it to such an extent. Way too much desire and adoration, directed at men they’d never met. It was a heavy burden to bear.

“Thank’ya.” Paul said softly.

George nodded, despite Paul’s eyes being shut. He moved to retreat his hand.

Paul’s eyes shot open.

“No!” Paul said abruptly. It was a bit panicked even. He realized, then relaxed his voice, still a vulnerable tone. “Leave’t a second. Please…”

George returned his hand, placing it gently on Paul’s shoulder. He waited another beat, before trying again to get some sort of answer. 

“Paul, you’ve gotta tell me what’s happened.” George’s voice was firm, but pleading.

Paul hesitated a moment before responding.

“It y’wanna help me...jus’ please keep yer hand there.”

“Uh,” George said. He trailed off.

“Jus’ touch’m...alright?” Paul said in his small voice.

Paul was leaning into the touch still, seemingly craving more.

“Need’t. Please.” He murmured.

George nodded awkwardly. George wanted to fix whatever was weighing on Paul, but he didn’t know how. Paul still refused to tell him how. Well...besides the touches.

“More?” George said quietly.

Paul’s eyes flitted open, his body stiffening at the thought of it. He nodded.

“Yes, yes. If you would...please.”

George would’ve been embarrassed to, already it was so strange, but it wasn’t an elaborate joke, or a game. This wasn’t the same atmosphere as when they’d make digs at one another. It was a different context.

It wasn’t the standard, to seek comfort from each other in this way. They didn’t show this sort of vulnerability, always hiding behind the irony, the gags. This made Paul’s predicament all the more compromising. He was exposing himself to George in more ways than one. Paul was certainly in a more vulnerable position than George was. George couldn’t reject him in this moment, or Paul’s mental state could get even worse. Paul needed it.

“Alright.” George said.

He put his other hand on Paul’s opposite shoulder. He hesitated a moment before adding a touch more pressure. Paul’s skin was usually quite immaculate. Looking over the bruises, Paul must’ve gotten into a barfight or something. He wasn’t the type to, but suppose there were a lot of circumstances they haven’t encountered before. George didn’t bring it up, as that seemed to make Paul more self-conscious, bringing up bad memories. George gently massaged his shoulders.

“More,” Paul murmured. It was so quiet George could barely hear it, only a slight movement of the lips, his little rabbit teeth.

George nodded again, despite Paul’s eyes being closed.

Paul’s body was nice. It was soft, skin nice to the touch. Warm too. It wasn’t a woman’s body, broad shoulders and such, but it wasn’t horrible to touch him. George was still worried though, hands too close to the marks.

Hopefully this would help. George wanted to help. All Paul seemed to want was to be touched, thinking he didn’t deserve it. How strange. Hell, must’ve been a bad night he’d had.

Paul’s eyes cracked open, gazing into George’s, a pleased look on his face. It wasn’t a full smile, but it seemed that George’s actions were giving him comfort. That’s what George wanted.

“Good?” he said. He gave Paul another one of his grins.

Paul gave a nod, eyes softening.

George didn’t know what else to do. Touching anywhere besides the shoulders...especially with his friend nude...was strange. Looking at Paul, he seemed to be more relaxed. There was no trace of lust or anything of the sort in his expression. Paul wasn’t getting sexual gratification from this.

“Uhm...what would you like me to do?” George said.

“More,” Paul breathed. “Touch more...please…”

George slid his hands down hesitantly, they were light touches, down those graceful arms. Paul raised them.

George held his breath, his hands on Paul’s soft sides. His fingertips grazed against Paul’s underarm hair. Not like a woman...they normally shaved. Paul seemed to enjoy the touches, so George rested his hands there, despite the nervous tremors going down his back.

“Good?” He said, low in his voice. He tried to conceal any uncertainty, not wanting Paul to be hurt in this vulnerable state, these more intimate touches.

Paul’s eyes were shut, his lips parted. He gave a nod. He was sitting up straight, leaning into the gentle touches.

“...lower.”

Paul’s voice was quiet and demure, but came from deep in his chest. George’s face felt hot.

Paul was beginning to seem less fragile than before. This was good. George must be helping him. He did love Paul, as a brother and as a friend. He would do anything to fix, or even help with anything he was going through.

George slowly moved lower, down his chest. When his hand reached Paul’s stomach, Paul hissed.

“You good?” George said quietly.

Paul bit his lip and nodded, his eyes still shut. He was hurt there as well? There must be soreness under the surface as well.

This was different than just touching Paul’s bare shoulder. It was much more intimate. The circumstance, Paul’s vulnerability, touching here...It was stirring something inside of George, much to his discomfort. George wanted to help! Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t see Paul that way...and Paul was in a vulnerable position.

...but, Paul’s stomach was soft. It podged out, if only a touch, the way a woman’s would. But Paul didn’t look like a woman. He was slender, subtle curves.

Paul wasn’t a fat teenager any longer, but had a gentle softness to his body, along with the delicate tone on his arms and legs. George increased the pressure in his touch, if only a slight amount. The subtle softness was so nice in his grip. George didn’t have that kind of softness. He had trouble putting on weight. He didn’t have a soft stomach like Paul’s...a soft chest.

Paul’s puffies were flat...but pink and soft-looking. George averted his eyes.

Hell! What the fuck was he doing? Christ, poor Paul. George’s mind was going _there?_ One of his best mates, going through something terrible, George felt like shit.

Paul hesitated, his body going still. George’s eyes flitted to his face. Did he overstep? Oh Christ…

“Wouldja, uh-” Paul began

George listened intently. Paul got quiet again, bashfulness on his gentle features.

“...Touch’m…”

George was perturbed. His own thoughts were shaking him up as well.

“I am?” He said.

Paul’s eyes cracked open, a pleading expression. Such a pretty face.

“No…” The sound barely left his lips. “ _...touch_ me.”

George’s mouth slackened, his breath interrupted. What was going on? He felt like he was in a trance. Paul was exposing himself to him, putting so much trust in him. If George gave a cruel reaction, he was afraid Paul would shatter.

In a dreamlike state, George felt at an arm’s length from the situation. Paul’s eyes were closed, and George searched his face. There wasn’t any, not even a miniscule trace of facetiousness. Paul wasn’t screwing with him for his own amusement. Paul was asking, pleading for it. Just a touch. 

One little touch, to make him feel better?  
  


It felt so foreign to him. George’s mind was at a loss. What? Paul wanted...er…

What a strange request. Paul was acting so strange...but...George wanted to help him. Would this help him?

George held his breath, unconsciously or not, he didn’t know. Very tentatively, experimentally, George reached below the duvet. His long fingers were met with soft flesh. It was warm. George curled his hand around it, very gently at that.

“Ooh, yes.” Paul breathed, a sentiment mostly for himself.

It seemed to be helping him. George stalled for a moment. Did Paul want…?

The instinctive movement was to tighten. Paul’s breath hitched.

The deep voice threw George off. It wasn’t a woman’s voice. It was Paul’s voice. A wave of discomfort went through him. His eyes were on Paul’s face again. It was his mate, he was holding...er…

This was wrong wasn’t it? It was so strange in George’s hand. It wasn’t his knob. He was touching a knob, but it wasn’t his abdomen the sensation was going through. Paul wasn’t fully hard, but George felt it begin to stir from the touch. It was warm, soft skinned.

George’s thumb ran over it unthinkingly, feeling it. Paul gave a deep hum from his nose, making George’s eyes snap up. That brought him back to reality.

Paul was looking at him, eyes cracked open. He was looking at George with...adoration. With thankfulness. George looked to the side. He wet his lips.

“S’...alright?” George said, very quiet in his voice. He wasn’t sure what Paul wanted, what he was trying to gain from this.

Paul’s slight bump in comfort faded. He looked at George with insecurity, bashfulness. George’s heart skipped a beat. No, no, he didn’t want to do _that._

“Paul…?” He said tentatively.

Paul shut his eyes, a demure look back on his face.

“Please…”

George didn’t know what was happening, but he wanted to give Paul any comfort he could. It wasn’t so horrible, was it? If it could help Paul, he’d do it. Paul seemed to need him in this moment.

“Ya…” George cleared his throat. He felt that his hair was standing on end. “Er, want me ta move?”

Paul gave a short nod.

George began to, very slowly. It felt so strange, the soft skin under his hand. He hadn’t done this before to another man. It began to harden. Still, it wasn’t anything so new, was it? They’d always had close quarters, seen things from each other. Hell, Paul and the others cheered for his three years back when he fucked that prostitute for the first time.

Paul let out a shaky breath. It was deep, but Paul’s voice was rather sweet. George knew that. Wasn’t so bad. It would be weird if he was beating off some bloke with a raspy grow. Paul’s voice was lovely, sweet little groans. His ears perked up, hearing the soft noises.

The thought worried George again. He needed to distance himself. It’d be unfair to Paul if he let himself waver like that. George had the upper hand, his friend vulnerable like this. It wasn’t about him.

Paul was getting hard from the stimulation, his lidded eyes shut. It was hot against George’s hand, the skin quite delicate, but clearly alive. George’s stomach flipped when it twitched, an accompanying gasp from Paul.

Paul’s lips moved a touch, then he began to murmur, a bit quick.

“C’mon...Please, George…? Help’me...jus’ a little more...please?”

Paul’s eyes were shut, but his face was getting flushed. His petal lips were parted as he breathed, quite pink. George could remember what they felt like against his.

...would Paul want?

No. He shut down the thought. Paul was in a vulnerable position. He didn’t need George coming onto him. George wouldn’t do anything more than what Paul asked for.

Paul wanted a little more. George tightened his hand, but Paul hissed, wincing. George immediately loosened his grip.

“Paul?” George stopped moving his hand. “Are ya alright? Please tell’m-”

“S’fine!” Paul snapped, though not in an aggressive manner. His voice softened. “Jus’ a bit...sore. Please…”

George pushed down his hang-ups. He began to move his hand, but was careful not to use too much pressure. He tried not to think about what he was doing, whatever implications came from it. He focused on Paul’s face. 

A faint smile grew on it, his eyes still shut. He gave a pleasured exhale. That made George happier to see. He didn’t speak of it, not wanting to take Paul out of his focus.

As the tension released from Paul’s body, he slowly leant forward. His head rested on George’s shoulder. 

George’s body stiffened up. Paul was touching him, leaning on him. George could smell him. It was a sweet scent, not feminine, but not the foul kind many men had. George tried to hold back whatever this stirred inside him. It was odd. This whole situation was. He didn’t let the thoughts fester.

Unthinkingly, Paul groaned, right by his ear. George pushed down the rush he got from that. Paul’s arms curled around his shoulders, searching for comfort. It must be comfort Paul wanted...hell. He must be going through some shit. More than anything, George wanted to understand.

He was worried of speaking, breaking Paul’s concentration, but the words unthinkingly, softly, fell from his mouth.

“Alright, Paul?”

Paul turned his head, if only slightly. George’s eyes darted to his, breath held, afraid he’d taken him out of it.

Thankfully, Paul had a small smile, eyes foggy. It was the demure expression from before, the thankful one.

Paul let out a sigh. George’s body relaxed. His heart skipped a beat when Paul grazed his lips against his neck. He pushed down the rush he got.

“George…” Paul mumbled, the relief evident in his voice. It sounded quite warm. George knitted his eyebrows.

“Yeah?” He said, under his breath. His eyes were fixed on the opposite wall.

He could feel Paul’s body (Paul’s _unclothed_ body) leaning against him, warm, soft, sweet-scented. Hell, if he got...worked up over this, George would never forgive himself. His _male_ friend, relying on him for comfort, George getting a sick thrill out of it.

George didn’t have eyes for him. Paul was objectively nice looking, but so were wildflowers and willow trees. George didn’t lust after those. Paul wasn’t a woman. He was much larger physically, a couple centimeters than he was for Christ’s sake. He liked girls when it came to such things. 

Paul’s _knob_ was in his hand. He tried not to think of the significance, and didn’t look down. 

Yet, it wasn’t horrible, heated and heavy in his hand, but such soft skin. It didn’t feel grotesque, rather smooth. Not the worst feeling in the world, along with Paul’s warmth, his sweet voice. Paul was a good singer, so that much made sense.

“George...George…” Paul was murmuring against the skin of his neck nonsensically, those damned warm breaths, dampening it. George’s hair stood on end.

“Ya care for’me. George...ya love’m…?”

The tone was still uncertain. Paul was asking for reassurance, not trying to boost his ego. George could tell the difference by now, it was nothing like this. Besides, Paul rarely went to _him_ for that. 

George gave a nod, lips tight.

“Yeah. Course, Paul.” He said.

Paul shuddered against him, seemingly from happiness. George was thankful for that. The moment he’d walked in, he noticed how...empty...Paul had looked. George was about to berate him for not getting ready too. He felt bad.

It was true that Paul’s behavior as of late was irritating him, his push to keep touring, the controlling nature that has always been there. Paul had been more snappy lately, tense, and lashing out without good cause. George could only assume it was the pressure. 

Despite it all, Paul was still his dear friend. George cared for him as he always did. They didn’t go about telling each other, but it was known, wasn’t it?

Paul smiled into his neck, those lips brushing against it again. Hell, those lips. Trying his best to make Paul none the wiser, George shifted his hips away. Paul hummed against his shoulder. 

Paul was clearly swollen now in his hand. It felt more alive, Paul’s heartbeat coursing through it. It was a knob. With stimulation, it would engorge, and that would ultimately lead to ejaculation. George didn't think about it. It was what he had, but he couldn’t put two and two together.

Paul’s arms tightened around George’s shoulders. George could feel Paul’s heated chest through the thin material of his dress shirt. Such soft skin. Paul wanted comfort, he wanted to be closer. George ignored how his hair stood on end, Paul’s nose grazing against his cheek.

“Ya still care for’m…” Paul was mumbling, likely to affirm it to himself, just under his breath. “...George…George…”

Paul shifted his hips, an instinctive motion. 

Paul was a man. That was his instinct, to thrust when aroused. George tightened his lips. His hand had a regular rhythm on Paul’s shaft, which seemed to be giving him the needed pleasure and reassurance.

George’s breath became uneven. Did Paul mean to cum from this. Er, that would be strange. Suppose that was the natural outcome. Paul cumming...by George’s hand. The thought was strange sitting in his mind. He tried not to dwell on it.

“George…”  
  


George’s eyes darted to his friend, if only for a second. He could see the side of Paul’s head, Paul’s cheek resting on his shoulder. Paul’s body was pale, soft, but clearly a man’s. His shoulders were toned, they were broad as those arms wrapped around him.

But, he was delicate, such gentle features. They were nice. Paul’s breath was on his shoulder, voice in his ear. He looked away.

George unthinkingly ran his thumb over Paul’s frenulum. Paul gasped.

“Ooh, that’s good…” Paul murmured, his voice trembly. It was a good sound.

“Er, like that?” George said, doing it again. A shiver went through his friend.

Paul seemed to like it there, around his slit too. George tried to not think about what he was touching, the dampness smearing on his fingertips. He focused on Paul’s sweet sounds.

“George...s’good.” Paul groaned, his voice breaking. Paul jerked his hips a small amount. “A little more, c’mon…”

It gave him a thrill, having Paul say his name in that manner. Paul never spoke to him with that tone, always the older one, the one who wrote the songs. He didn’t look down on George per se, but they had a sort of dynamic, having known each other so long.

Paul was nearly there. George could get him there. He wanted to, but didn’t know why.

Paul let out a sound. It was higher. George’s heart skipped a beat. Paul’s speaking voice was deep and sweet, but he had quite the vocal range. He could sing high if he wanted. If Paul paid attention, maybe he could cry out like a woman…

Paul’s grip on him tightened, rocking into his hand. Paul was rocking into his hand. George’s stomach tightened. Despite himself, he leant into Paul in return.

“Love’m, George…” Paul sighed.

George nodded. He had to wet his lips.

  
“Yeah.” George said. It was true. They were brothers. Always would be.

Paul nuzzled into him. It would be sweet if it weren’t for what George was doing. It would be nice to have more platonic intimacy, but pridefulness and all that. It wasn’t done. This was a special circumstance, wasn’t it? It could get lonely on tour, moving around so often, with only each other. The women only offered one kind of comfort. There was no emotional connection there.

Paul let out a small strangled noise into his shoulder. He gave another jerk of his lips. George could feel warm liquid leak down his fingers. He tried not to think about what it was.

Paul’s sweet sounds offered all the appreciation George needed.

Paul lifted his head. His eyes opened a fraction, looking into George’s. They were hazy and amourous. Paul made the sweetest gasping noises. Paul’s lips tried to move.

“Oh, thank’ya...thank’ya…” Paul breathed, nonsensically out of appreciation and approval. “Ooh, thank’ya...George…” 

George felt self conscious at the eye contact, but he didn’t look away. He remembered what Paul thought when he did before. Luckily, Paul’s gaze drifted upward, focused on the sensation. 

Paul’s face was flushed. It was oddly enticing in this way, the pleasure on his pretty face clearly sexual in nature. George wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

Paul’s forehead tilted forward, resting against George’s. His eyes were shut, his lips parted as he drew shallow breaths. Paul’s hands were curled around George’s shoulders, lightly tightening. George could feel the shivers running through him.

“Alright, Paul?” George murmured in concern. He made his voice gentle.

Paul’s eyes flitted open, and he smiled sweetly at him. His soft cheeks were bunched up, his eyes appreciative. George’s face was blank, lips slightly parted as his eyebrows knit in concern. This made Paul’s smile waver.

“George…?”

George’s heart skipped a beat. He quickly forced a smile, a closed mouth one, for reassurance. The last thing he wanted was Paul to think he was making a fool of himself, that George was forcing himself to do this. That seemed to make Paul happier again, regaining his little smile. Paul closed his eyes, dark eyelashes on flushed pale cheeks. They fluttered.

“Ah-”

Paul’s voice was working him up. George pushed it down. Paul’s back arched, and George could see his bare thighs shift underneath him. They were full, shapely, with dark fuzz. George nearly caught a glimpse of the organ, his own hand curled around it. He quickly looked away. He was trying to not think of what he was doing. Hell, tossing Paul off...what _was_ he doing…?

Paul gasped in a breath, his pretty lips trembling. George met his gaze. 

“...Paul?” 

Paul focused a bit more on his gaze, smiling wider. He gasped again, letting out an audible sound of pleasure. George’s heart beat faster, those eyes fixed on him. They were looking at him with such adoration, cloudy with arousal.

Paul recognized him, breathing out his name.

“...George...Hazza....”

George gave him another one of his grins, but his eyes were still concerned. Paul looked happier though…

“Yes, Paul. M’here.” George paused a moment, thinking of what Paul wanted to hear. He made his voice reassuring. “I care for ya, y’know? Ya don’ have to wonder…”

Paul smiled, his open mouthed ones. George hadn’t seen it for a while come to think of it. Paul had been looking...sadder as of late. By his standards anyway. Paul was such a cheery sort.

“Yer...lovely, eh? S’not dirty, see?”

Paul seemed to buzz with excitement. His hips shuddered. George’s eyes got wide. Oh hell...Paul was…

Paul gasped, an adorable audible one in his sweet voice. It trembled with Paul’s body.

The knob pulsed in George’s hand. He pointed it away from himself, as he was dressed. It splattered on Paul’s stomach and chest. George stroked him through it, Paul moaning deliciously, his body shivering. It was an erotic sight, no doubt about it.

George’s eyes flitted down, if only out of curiosity. It was cute...smaller than his, pink and swollen. It wasn’t a grotesque one at all. It was to be expected he supposed, Paul was immaculate everywhere else. George thought it would disgust him, seeing it in his hand...but it was satisfying in a way, as it pulsed fluid out of its slit. George had done this.

Paul’s breath shuddered, coming back down. He slumped back onto George, rolling his hips, releasing the last of it into George’s fist.

“I got ya.” He said.

George’s heart was beating rather fast. Paul’s skin was a slight bit damp, certainly heated, trembling in the aftershocks. George held still, unsure of what to do.

He didn’t have to decide.

Suddenly, Paul’s entire body stiffened. He jumped off of George as if he burnt.

“Fucking shit!” Paul exclaimed. He ran his hands up and down his arms, shivering. His eyes shot open and he scrambled to cover himself with the duvet, hiding his body.

“Christ. Dammit, I’m sorry. Christ...I’m sorry George. I, I don’t fucking know why I made ya do that. Christ. Christ!”

Paul’s voice was nasally, panicking. Now that it was louder, George noticed it was a touch scratchy as well.

“S’alright, Paul. S’alright.” George repeated, trying to calm him down. He held his hands up.

Paul buried his hands in his face. He seemed horrified, taken aback by his own actions. He looked ashamed and mortified by himself. His shoulders shook.

“It’s alright. I don’t-” George began. “It’s alright, Paul. M’not gonna hold it against ya.”

Paul’s eyes were darting around, looking everywhere but at George.

George’s skin crawled with worry...but also...guilt. He thought he’d been helping Paul...Paul had asked for it, didn’t he? Maybe he should’ve known better, force an answer out of Paul instead of just taking his words at face value. Stupid...stupid…

Paul had just seemed so miserable, George wanted to help him. Christ, that’s all he had wanted to do.

But...George had been... _enjoying_ it. He was trying not to, but he did. George felt horrible. Paul had wanted it, but George knew there was something deeper going on. Stupid…

George composed himself. He spoke in a serious tone, staring right into his friend.

“Paul, you need to tell me what’s happened to ya. I know something’s not right. Something’s happened to ya. I know it has. Ya didn’t do this for shits. Something’s very wrong here. Tell me.”

Paul shook his head.

“I can’t. I can’t tell ya. I can’t.”

“This isn’t right, Paul! What’s happened to ya?” George raised his voice, but only a touch. His tone was more concerned than anything. “Please jus’ tell me. I won’t tell anybody, but I’ve got to know.”

Paul shook his head again, then glared at George. His voice was no longer shaky.

“If ya want to help me, you’ll forget this happened. You’ll treat me like normal, alright? Not a word.”

“Paul,” George tried. 

“Understand?”

Paul was back to anger, or rather forcefulness. His demurity from earlier had gone. It was incredible how easily Paul could shift power to himself, despite his nudity, despite what had just happened. Paul had such a presence, even with his soft features, his gentle voice. Suppose that’s how they got to where they were.

“...alright.” George said after a moment. “But please, if there’s anything I can do-”

“You can’t.” Paul said firmly. “This didn’t happen.”

Paul’s voice wasn’t harsh, but it was sharp. It made George’s voice die in his throat.

George nodded in agreement, placating his friend. If Paul was certain, he’d let it be. It was forgotten. George still wanted to help him...but he didn’t know how.

“I’ll see ya in a moment, yeah? Get ready for the concert?” George said.

Paul grimaced.

“Yeah. I’ll be ready in a ‘mo.” 

George left the room, leaving Paul to get dressed.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t “ship” one over the other or nothing, but I thought seeking comfort in a long-time friend to offset the negative experience would make sense.
> 
> Also have a Wonderful Christmastime or other holidays! :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had minor surgery so I’ve been unable to write lately oof. I’m all good now :) To be honest I was rather doped out when I edited and posted the previous chapter, so I’m glad people liked it. Groovy.

  
  
  


Paul cursed himself. He was disgusting. It made him sick, what he’d just done.

He’d made George fucking touch him. Why?

Paul gnawed at his bottom lip, self-hatred and shame overtaking him. Maybe John had been fucking right. Maybe Paul  _ was  _ nothing but a whore, trying to get it anyway he could. Paul liked sex. He loved it, but lately his perception of it all had become so screwed up. Paul didn’t even know what he wanted anymore.

Fucking George...his little brother. How could he do this? Paul must really be depraved.

He didn’t even know why he did it, what had come over him. Paul felt like an outsider looking in, words coming from his lips as if someone else were saying them, completely in a trance. When Paul came, he’d snapped back to reality. Paul had realized what he had done, it hitting him as violently as being doused by a bucket of ice-water.

George would never look at him the same way again. George was likely sickened with him now.

George had told him what Paul wanted to hear. Of course he would. George was good. Still, Paul knew what he must think of him now. George surely must be disgusted with him, only going along with Paul’s perverted demands in the hopes of making him feel better. Christ. Of course he would.

Paul’s cum was drying on his skin, on his chest and stomach. Oh Christ. Oh shit.

Paul wrapped his arms around himself. What was he going to do now? What? Where did he go from here? He didn’t even know. His body still ached. 

Suppose there was the show. There was the show, then a press conference, then more bullshit. There was always more bullshit to get through.

If there was one thing that came naturally to Paul, it was working himself to the bone. He  _ liked _ to do things. It would drive him mad becoming sedentary. Paul liked to perform, he liked to write, and he liked to play. It was his passion and it was his job. He wasn’t about to quit it. Paul would move past, keep going.

Paul swiftly got into the hotel shower. He wanted to get himself clean for Christsake. He’d never felt so dirty in his life, the grime from before, the filth from John, and now from himself. 

The hot water felt nice on his sore skin, washing away any dried fluid. Paul didn’t need to worry about it now, it all disappearing down the shower drain. It stung against his bruises, but it was likely for the best. He didn’t want them infected. Paul was gentle with them, making sure they wouldn’t become irritated.

Paul dressed himself, always immaculate. His bangs would cover the bruise on his forehead, and nothing else would show. The only thing was Paul’s voice. He knew he’d strained it. 

They had a show in only a few hours, which was the reason George had come in the first place. Maybe Paul’s hoarse voice wouldn’t even matter. It wasn’t like anybody would hear them with their fans screaming over it the entire time. It was getting a bit old, that.

Paul wore the dark suits they wore for performances, their famous Chelsea boots, and combed his hair down, smooth and soft as it ever was. Immaculate. Paul could see a paleness to his complexion, looking himself in the mirror, but nobody would notice. He was as lovely as ever, dressed up like this. 

Paul could see his beauty, but he didn’t feel the intense pull it seemed to have over some others himself. He didn’t understand it sometimes, he’d prefer it if he were more masculine. Men were supposed to be masculine, weren’t they? Not have these delicate features. But he didn’t look like a woman, he didn’t look like those fellows in drag either back in Hamburg, at some of those clubs, their faces powdered and painted garishly.

Paul shaved his face. That was their look, clean shaven. Paul wondered if John would lose interest in him if he grew it out. He ran a hand over his smooth skin. Paul hadn’t tried before, growing a beard.

But John still went after him when Paul had 5 o’clock shadow, stubble on his neck and face. Paul certainly couldn’t be taken for a woman then, but John didn’t seem to care, not even a slight discomfort with it. It was hopeless.

Paul was the last one ready, but he wasn’t late. They were able to get into the car waiting for them, then to the show. 

Fortunately John didn’t try to speak with him. Paul wasn’t sure he would be able to handle it. He was doing all he could to block out the previous night. He didn’t want to hear John’s voice, or look at him. The thought of it made his fingers numb. It would bring him back to before, Paul knew it would. Paul even kept his distance from George, humiliated by his own actions, unable to look at him. Hell, when it was all said and done, maybe Paul would really end up alone.

Paul was fine to play the show. He’d been performing for years now. His hands knew how to find his chords, play the set list as they’d been doing the entire leg of the tour.

Despite everything that had been going on, performing was a constant in Paul’s life. When he was onstage, it seemed that he was detached from concrete details such as time and date. It emptied Paul’s head in a way, unable to think over the noise. It was liberating, unable to repeat memories in his head, gripe and gripe on and on about them as he did. 

Paul focused on the crowd instead of the others on stage. It hurt a bit to sing, but the fans probably couldn’t hear over their screaming. Paul and them could start performing their rendition of the damn Star Spangled Banner and they wouldn’t bat an eye. They were excited to just  _ see _ Paul on stage. Suppose that’s what he was there for. 

~

As always, Paul and them returned to a two room suite. It was spacious and luxurious, each of them having their own large bed.

Paul was afraid to bring it up before, disturb the routine, but there was no way in hell he was going to sleep in the same room as John anymore.

“Ey, George, you’re with me tonight.” Paul said to him, jabbing a finger at the door.

“Hm? How come?” George said.

The other two looked a bit confused as well. John more so.

Paul glared right at him, daring him to say a word about it.

“John’s been snoring as’of late.” Paul said flatly, gesturing. “I think it’d be better if he roomed with Ringo, eh? I’m a lighter sleeper than the both of ya.”

“Eh? Alright.” Ringo said.   
  
Paul gave a curt nod. John seemed taken aback, but had the sense to not speak up.

Paul still cringed at the sight of him, but George was his best bet. George was good to him. He felt safer staying with him. Ringo did snore as well, and Paul was a light sleeper. That much was true.

Paul swung his suitcase onto his bed and began sorting through his things. 

“Ey, Paul.”

Paul’s eyes flitted up. George was looking at him from across the room. The damn concern was back on his face, speaking to him more cautiously than normal. That’s exactly what Paul wanted to avoid. All he had to rely on were his other two bandmates treating him normally. Then he could pretend things were alright. Paul had to go and screw that up in his moment of weakness.

“Yeah?” Paul said. His voice was dry.

George chose his words carefully, trying not to say anything that’d close Paul off further. 

“Paul...you know I don’t hold it against ya, alright..? I know yer not right in the ‘head, something’s wrong. I don’t blame ya fer doing’t. Ya jus’ gotta tell’me…”

Paul looked at him blankly, and George trailed off. Nothing he could say to George would help him. George couldn’t fix things. George would only pity him more. That was the last thing Paul wanted, his little brother looking at him in that way. Paul had already screwed it up enough.

“M’good, George. Promise.” Paul said. He stretched his lips into a thin smile.

George still looked at him with that strange look. Paul dropped the smile, and went back to his suitcase. 

~

Paul would prefer to stay in, but after what happened the previous night, there was no way in hell he was going to risk being alone in the suite again. For John to come back to. Paul’s hands began to shake, but he blocked the memories out. Completely out.

Paul took a seat at the club’s bar. John was wise enough to keep his distance. For the first time in a good while John actually listened when Paul told him to fuck off.

He drank a gin and tonic, staring into the clear liquid. Paul didn’t rush to get it down. He didn’t particularly want to feel the effects of it. Being drunk or even buzzed wasn’t enticing, losing his coherence if only a slight amount. Paul used to love cutting loose, finding a broad to fuck, having a ball whilst getting pissed. Nothing bad would happen to him if he did.

The broads did approach him. Of course they fucking did. Paul wasn’t moved by them. They would always come onto him, and Paul would flirt right back. That’s how it used to be. Paul would pick his favorite if he wanted a fuck that night, and he often did want one.

Tonight however, Paul was dismissive with them. No seductive grins, no lidded eyes. Paul simply looked at their giggling and facetious faces blankly. He didn’t want a lay. After the previous night, he couldn’t stand the thought of hands on him, these girls would be handsy too. These girls loved to touch him, as if Paul’s skin was the cure to their ailments. Suppose that’s what came with having a name.

Paul was only a third into his drink. He wiped the condensation from the side of the glass with his finger, lazily looking over the crowd. There was no sign of his mates. There were all sorts dancing out there, all well dressed. Paul and them had to go to the upscale places, otherwise they’d be swarmed. The wealthy types were too full of themselves to go mad at celebrities. Why did people feel the need to swarm them? They didn’t before. It was mad. All of it.

Paul was still sore from where he’d been hit, and in other places he tried not to think about. It didn’t show much at least, and it had gotten less intense since the morning.

Paul didn’t care much for the loud music at the moment, but he was able to tune it out. At least the low light in the club gave him some anonymity.

Paul didn’t want to drink any more of his gin and tonic. He slid the cool glass away from him. He could think of nothing less appealing than being in a foggy state of mind.

Paul’s eyes flitted downward, his hand searching his suit coat pocket for bills. The bartender glanced up at him, hands busy with his drinks. 

“Ey, m’done here.” Paul said to him in a casual manner. “How much?”

The bartender shot him a grin. It was a friendly one, but the eyes...it was a look Paul knew all too well. He saw it every time John set his sights on him, the way some men’s gazes lingered. It was clearly a look of hunger. It was only a split second too, that it flashed across his eyes. If Paul had blinked he would've missed it. He wouldn’t have even noticed if it hadn’t become so familiar as of late. Seeing it made his blood run cold, his hair stand on end, the association with what usually came next. 

“Free of charge.” The bartender said.

Paul gave a curt nod.

“Aye.” Paul said.

Paul took his overcoat from coat check, wrapping it around himself.

Maybe it wasn’t smart given his recognizability, but Paul walked through the dark streets, the cold air nipping his face. Paul needed to be alone. He was never truly alone. It wasn’t a dangerous city they were in, rather quaint place really, with cobblestone streets and oil street lamps.

The light from them shone against the damp sidewalks as Paul made down the street, the only sound the dull clicks of his Chelsea heels against the cobblestone. He could hail a cab back to the hotel later. His breaths condensed in the air, illuminated by the streetlights. Paul huddled into his overcoat. He didn’t think of much. Not the night before, not the morning, or even the bartender from before. Paul’s head was blank.

“ _ Oh my! _ ”

The high-pitched voice took Paul out of his mind. He turned to it.

“Hm?”

It was a girl. She was on the younger side for certain, perhaps in her teens. Paul looked at her and she looked at him. She looked like she was about to jump out of her skin, excitement burning just beneath it, her hands shaking in disbelief.

She was a pretty one, soft thick hair down to the curve of her breast, not quite ginger, but not quite brown. She had soft cheeks like Paul did, a rather youthful face, little pink lips, barely noticeable freckles along her nose.

Her slender legs stirred something inside of Paul. She was wearing those short skirts that were becoming on-trend, a flash of soft skin where her stockings met the hem. Such a teasing sliver of it too, making Paul want to see more. She was young, but clearly not a child, the signs of womanhood already evident on her body. Paul’s eyes wandered, intentionally or not.

“ _ I can’t believe it! _ ” Her words blended together in a fluid squeal. “You're…”

Paul was always polite. He gave her a smile.

“Ah, yes. I am.”

His response seemed to only get her more excited. Her breaths came out in squeaks. Paul kept looking at her. He hadn’t taken a bird in a while, something unusual for him. The desire was still there.

She seemed to find her voice.

“M’name’s Carrie...I-you…” She stopped to catch here breath, high in her throat. “ _ You’re my favorite!  _ I can’t believe it...I’ve,  _ I’ve got you on my wall!” _

“Oh? That’s nice.” Paul said amiably. It came naturally to him.

The girl’s face stretched further into an excited smile.

“I wanted to see you tonight! I really did! But I couldn’t get a ticket...I was so disappointed. Was just sneaking back from my friend’s place. My curfew’s at eight, see…”

Her face fell for a split second, her eyes drifting to the side, but she immediately regained her previous excitement.

“ _ It’s you! _ It’s really you!”

The girl jumped in place, her hands clasped as if she was refraining from grabbing him. They were always more composed individually. It was the groups, the mobs, that brought out the worst in them. It was mad. They were like animals then. 

The girl was still talking.

“...I’ve got your albums! I listen to them every night! My friends said I was mad to do so, that I’d never meet you... _ but they were wrong!”  _ She broke into giggles before continuing. “I must be dreaming!  _ It’s too good to be true! _ ”

“Aye, s’really me.” Paul said warmly.

The girl squealed again.

“They said I was a fool! Oh Paul...you’re the only man I want…”

Paul raised his eyebrows, a smile playing at his lips. He expected that much, the sheer amount of girls that cried over him at night. It was still impossible to comprehend the scope of it. Having it told to his face, played right into his ego it did. Paul was supposed to be this big star, but even now all he could think of himself as was the same proletariat schoolboy from Liverpool.

“Come now, I’m sure you’ll find a good lad.” Paul said. His tone was more teasing than dismissive.

The girl shook her head furiously, squeezing her eyes shut. She made a face.

“No! No, I want  _ you… _ Paul…”

Her face had crept closer to his during their brief exchange. Unable to resist a moment longer, her demure but excited lips were on his. Uncharacteristically, Paul was taken aback by it, his eyes still open. 

Just that morning, Paul had forced the same thing from George. Paul shouldn't have fucking come onto him. Paul didn’t even know why he’d done it. Paul hadn’t gotten any sexual gratification from it, nor wanted any. There was no attraction behind it.

Paul had wanted comfort more than anything. The kiss had given him that. He didn’t see George as anything but a brother, but Paul wanted to feel close to him, and it had worked. Poor George...the memory was still fresh and ate away at him. Paul felt so much guilt and disgust in himself.

Paul hadn’t taken a bird in a while, too overwhelmed, disillusioned by it. A lot of the time the sensations, the hands on him, it made him feel that he was back in John’s grasp, John’s hands on him, John’s mouth on him.

But now being much more sober, the girl clearly soft and feminine, petite and sweet-scented, it felt good.

Paul kissed the girl back, his eyes falling shut. Instinctively, his hands were on her waist, his hold tightening. This wasn’t new to him, Paul had been taking women for years, more women than he could’ve ever hoped for. He wasn’t inexperienced. 

Paul was passionate in everything he did. She’d initiated a chaste kiss, an innocent enough one, but Paul deepened it, pushing further into her full petal lips. As expected, she accepted him. Paul suspected she’d take anything he had to give. The girls liked it when he took the lead. Paul might’ve had delicate features, but these girls still wanted him to sweep them off their feet. Now more than ever, Paul wanted to feel like a man.

There was an alley off the street they were on. That’s where they ended up. It was dark, quiet, and most important of all, it was private.

Paul’s hands explored her sides, groping and squeezing at the softness. It came so naturally to Paul. Despite all that’d happened, taking a broad was the same as it always was, just like when he was only a teenager up North. There were so many girls, different shapes and sizes, colors and accents, but they were all so similar. They all had the same soft skin, the same supple bodies. Paul couldn’t get enough.

Paul’s mouth was on her neck, his hands creeping up her thigh. She was receptive as any, desperate for Paul’s touch, leaning into them. Her high voice was breathy with happiness. Paul was happy as well. They both wanted this.

“Oooh, Paul…” The girl moaned. She seemed giddy, but also as if she were doing something naughty. Something she wasn’t supposed to. Paul snorted to himself. She was. If her old man knew what she was doing right now...

Paul pressed his hips to hers. His whole body really, pressing her against the side of the brick building. If her joyful squeals were anything to go by, she was enjoying this. Why wouldn’t she be?

Paul reached between her slender legs, feeling around her knickers, finding her mound through the thin delicate fabric. Paul never got tired of this, reaching down between a bird’s soft curved thighs, feeling the heat and dampness he’d caused. It was intoxicating. Paul loved the way cunts looked too, absolutely delicious, pink and wet and quivering. It was only natural to want to eat them out. 

He was at full mast just thinking about it. Paul’s hips unthinkingly ground against her as he mouthed her neck. She gasped and cooed, accepting every bit of it.

Paul tugged her undergarments to the side, exploring her outer labia with his fingertips. He loved the way cunts felt too, wet and hot and welcome. She was no different, leaking at the very thought of him. The scent from it wafted around Paul, making him even more hot and bothered. 

She breathed Paul’s name from her lips, him being the only thing on her mind. Paul was more than happy to fulfill her desires, play into her infatuation. Who was he to refuse?

He ran a finger down the line of her slit, between her pressed together lips, catching on her little entrance. Paul steadily, but quickly slipped it in. The girl drew a shaky breath as Paul pushed it deeper. She was rather tight. Expected, Paul supposed. She seemed on the younger end. Still, Paul was no stranger to this. A good number of girls had proudly told him they were saving themselves for him. Great! They wanted Paul to fuck them, so he did.

“Want’me?” Paul purred into her ear, low in his throat, his voice as breathy as hers. She nodded furiously, her eyes shut tight.

Paul’s hands fumbled at his fly, trying to free his erection. His eyes were fixed on the young girl, her soft little features illuminated by the moonlight. Paul was used to pretty women by now, but he still liked to look at them.

Paul lifted her right leg, holding it so that it wrapped around his waist. His length was free, and he brought it to slit, sliding it along her lips, slicking himself up with her fluids. She was gazing dreamily at Paul as if he hung the stars, wide disbelieving eyes. Her hands clasped together behind his neck to support herself. Paul was focused on the task at hand.

Paul’s left arm remained curled around her leg, keeping it raised, his other hand on the bend of her hip. He lined his blunt swollen head up to her entrance. It would be a tight fit. Paul began to apply slow pressure.

The girl jumped at the sensation.

“Paul! Wait…”

Paul’s eyes flitted up to her. The interruption annoyed him a bit, but he didn’t let it show. The girl smiled nervously now that she caught his attention. She was shivering a bit.

“Hm?”

Paul stopped pushing for a moment. When she didn’t speak up, he began again. The girl keened at this, resuming her shivering. Paul adjusted his hold on her leg, shifting a small amount, then began pushing harder. It required a bit more effort to breach her. 

The girl gasped a shuddering breath. She fidgeted in his hold, but Paul gripped her harder, easily keeping her still. He made it so she couldn’t shift away out of reflex. She had to hold still if Paul was to enter her.

“Paul...it hurts…” The girl whined. She kept her voice quiet, as if afraid to say anything to put him off, but feeling a fair bit of discomfort at the sensation.

Paul giggled in his low voice.

“S’alright. It’ll feel good in a sec, promise.”

He brushed off her complaints. She was being dramatic. Cunts were made for this.

Paul didn’t let up. She gave another pained whine, but offered no further complaint. Paul knew she wouldn’t. These girls were so infatuated with him, they’d let Paul do whatever he wanted, even at their own expense. They loved him that much. It was a real rush. She was a young one too, innocent to the world. She might have grand ideas of love and sex passed down from her folks and her church.

She cried out when Paul’s head popped in. Paul giggled, again shushing her. She tried to pull her hips back, but Paul’s grip on them was too firm. She couldn’t deny him now, after all her talk.

“Paul…” She whined, her voice shaky. “Hurts…”

“Shh.” Paul hushed, then spoke sweetly. “Be good, eh? For me…?”

She drew in another breath. She hummed in affirmation. Of course she did. Paul grinned, trying to push in the rest of his length. She cried out at the sensation. Paul playfully shushed her.

Christ it was nice to be inside a cunt again. It was heavenly. It was hot and tight and wet and sucked him in, his whole abdomen lit up with pleasure and warmth. Paul wanted to fuck it harshly right away. Why shouldn’t he? The girl would let him. She wanted him.

Paul’s hips began to thrust, slowly at first. The girl’s legs trembled with each movement, her hands feeling around his back, whimpering in discomfort. She was holding back her complaints so as to not be a bother. More fuel for his own ego. Paul got off to it, really.

She was likely overreacting. She wanted to please Paul. All she wanted was Paul, and she finally got him. This was good, wasn’t it? Paul was making love to her at long last. But it hurt...

“Paul! Slowly…!” She whispered uneasily. Paul giggled at her again.

“You’ll get used to it, darlin’.” Paul said into her ear. 

His pretty lips tickled her, his voice was deep and lovely just like in his records, sweet like honey, like on the television and on the radio. This should be perfect.

They had always told her it would be perfect the first time the man you loved took you. Paul was enjoying himself. He was grinning, his soft cheeks growing pink. He was as adorable as she’d always hoped. If Paul liked her enough to do this, and was enjoying it, she was doing good, wasn’t she?

“S’good, baby.” Paul groaned, his eyelashes fluttering, his gaze wandering up. 

She lit up hearing this, butterflies in her stomach. Still, Paul’s movements were too sudden. He was a touch too rough. She would’ve expected something gentler from him, especially with his beautiful features, and the way he sang his lovely ballads. She’d always found them so romantic, those eyes too.

Paul groped at her body. It was so soft and nice to the touch. She smelled so nice too. Her walls clenched around his prick deliciously, making his hips jerk forward regardless of what Paul thought. Christ, this felt so good. Paul loved it. His thrusts began to pick up pace.

Paul wasn’t horrible, he started off slower, but his natural temperament was to fuck hard and fast. It was even more difficult to hold back after missing this for so long. It must’ve been a week by now, maybe two even? The days had just blended together, always something to do next. 

Paul had grown tired of it, the clubs, the chase. He just didn’t have the energy. 

Even if he did go after a bird, there was no guarantee John wouldn’t decide to take him that night, making it worthless to try. Paul certainly didn’t feel any desire for more sex, not after another reluctant orgasm forced out of him by John. Pursuing a bird was the last thing on his mind as he lay on the bed, having been just fucked himself.

Fucking John. It was all his fucking fault. Anger flared up inside of him. Paul wasn’t going to let the fucking bastard take Paul’s love for sex away from him. Paul loved it, and John wasn’t going to ruin it anymore. He wouldn’t!

Paul buried his nose in her soft hair, humming low in his throat. Her inner walls dragged against his shaft, wet and hot. He couldn’t get enough of it, his hips moving on their own. Pinpricks of pleasure shot through his navel and hips. Oh God, he wanted more. It was so good.

Paul devoured her neck. He wanted to suck her in, the scent of her, the scent of her arousal and fluids. She squeaked with every harsh thrust. She’d have to get used to it. That’s simply how Paul liked to fuck. He wasn’t going to change it for some young girl he’d picked up by the side of the road. She should feel lucky, Paul was giving her a memory she’d cherish forever, and a story to tell her friends.

“Baby...oh baby…” Paul slurred nonsensically. There were so many names, he didn’t care to keep track of them. What had she said? Cassie? Katie? Didn’t matter now, did it?

Sure enough, she got over the pain, and was making her little sounds of pleasure along with him. Paul knew she would. It probably helped that Paul was Paul, his pleasure being her pleasure.

Paul’s movements became more erratic, his breaths more labored. He cried out in his sweet voice, his desperate breaths. It was a sound many would die to hear from him, gorgeous moans from such a lovely ballad singer. He felt that his prick was melting off, it felt so good. Paul was so close. It was building in his navel, the liquid pressure pooling, wanting to be released. Paul wanted his release more than anything else in this world. He chased it with reckless abandon. He gave another cry from the bottom of his chest.

Paul shoved himself deep, pressing the girl harsher to the wall. He liked to be deep inside them when he came. Paul cried out. It became too much and now he was at climax. His hips shuddered and he gritted his teeth, whining loudly. He released inside her, each burst of fluid resulting in unimaginable pleasure and relief. Hell it was good. Paul’s mind was finally blank, overtaken with pleasure. There was so much frustration in his life, but now all he could think of were the waves of orgasm coursing through him.

Paul made sure to release every drop, rocking inside her for good measure. He hung his head, the cold air nice on his damp hair. Paul panted, catching his breath.

After he had a moment to recover, the girl spoke, reminding Paul of his presence.

“Paul?” She said quietly, her voice uncertain.

Paul smiled at her. He was always polite, especially to women. Paul could always say he was polite.

“S’great. Thanks.” He said.

Paul gave her shoulder a squeeze. This only seemed to confuse her further, clearly expecting something more.

Paul frowned internally. These young fans...they never knew any better. That’s why the four of them tended to avoid these types. These girls bought into what the papers said, what the tabloids said. Their clean Beatle image. Suppose it sold records.

“I’ve got to get going, y’know.” Paul put on a sympathetic voice. “I’ve got a show in the next town over tomorrow, won’t wait for me. Gotta get back to the boys, yeah?”

The girl looked slighted, as if Paul had said something cruel to her. She looked so confused.

“But...how will you find me again?” She said, her voice small and unsure. 

Her question was so genuine. That was the problem with these young girls. They were too innocent. They believed in fairytales, thinking it meant something when Paul stuck his prick inside them. It was a real drag to deal with.

The last thing Paul wanted was a tearful confrontation. Paul smiled at her, toying with her soft hair between his fingers. He had his charms still.

“I’ll tell you what.” Paul said. “When I get there, phone the Sheraton hotel. They’ll send the line up to me, yeah? Jus’ say yer name, and tell them Paul wanted’ta hear from you.”

The girl regained her previous excitement, buzzing as Paul’s fingers combed through her hair. This might just be the best day of her life. Her little friends would never believe it if she told them.

“Okay!” She said. It was more of a squeak.

Paul gave her a nod. He made his way back down the street, not sparing a glance.

The cold nipped at Paul again without the other body for warmth, the heated passage he’d nestled himself inside. 

Was it so horrible? She’d wanted it, he’d wanted it. She’d be disappointed, sure, but the girl would be able to cherish the memory. Her friends couldn’t say the same. She’d be the envy of all her classmates. So many girls would kill for the chance to have him, this heartthrob darling.

Paul reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his box of cigarettes as he walked. He lit a match, lighting a cigarette, then brought it up to his lips.

She knew what she was getting into. Paul already fucking had a girl.

Come to think of it, Paul hadn’t seen her for a good long while. He looked upwards. Hell, not since John began…

Paul cringed. He didn’t want to think of it. Every thought he wasted on it was too many.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	17. Chapter 17

  
  


The rest of the night was uneventful. Paul returned to the suite and changed into his nightclothes, easily falling asleep. Paul awoke the next morning to pack. They had a show in the next town over, just as he’d said to the girl.

“Morning, Hazza.”

“Morning.”

Paul’s tone was chipper. He did feel rather good after that night of rest. He had a quick rinse and shaved his face.

Paul’s case was packed. When he made out to the common area, John and Ringo were already there, engaging in casual conversation. Their conversation stalled, their eyes looking to the movement, an innate reaction.

“Morning, Paul.” Ringo said. They were all pleasant. 

“Morning, Rich.”

John gave him a nod. Paul hadn’t spoken to him, much less acknowledged him since what had happened that night. It wasn’t difficult really, with how fast paced their lives now it was simpler not getting a word in. 

Paul couldn’t even look at his former best mate the day before, the wounds still much too fresh. When John’s eyes landed on him that morning, there was a pained look behind them, as if the guilt and horror was eating away at him as well. Paul felt no sympathy for it.

They had a moment to relax before their car would arrive. Paul put the kettle to boil, intending to make some morning tea for himself.

“Ey, Paul.”

John was hovering beside him near the counter. Paul’s eyes didn’t shift. He didn’t want to look at him. At least John didn’t come too close. Paul grunted in response.

“Paul.” He repeated.

Paul’s gaze flitted to him, not turning his head. He was focused on the task at hand, reaching up to get a cup. Paul nearly dropped it when John grabbed his arm.

“Ya can’t ignore me, fuckin’ listen Paul.” John said, irritated by Paul’s cold demeanor. John kept his voice down. The kitchenette was around the corner, so just out of sight, but still within earshot. 

The hand on his arm wasn’t gripping him particularly hard, but Paul didn’t like that it was there. It made his skin crawl, that hand curled around his arm, disturbing the thin fabric of his dress-shirt. The hold was firm enough that Paul was aware of it, and it drove him mad. These fucking hands on him, always needing to have a hold on him.

Paul jerked his arm out of the hold. Wisely, John quickly let go, retreating his hand.

“Don’ touch’me.” Paul spat, clear resentment and disgust in his tone. He also kept his voice low.

At least John fucking listened this time. Any aggression in John’s face immediately dissipated at his response. He went pale. John’s voice turned pleading, speaking in a whisper as to not draw attention.

“Please jus’ talk to’me for a second.  _ Please. _ Don’ make me beg, Paul.  _ Please, _ jus’ fuckin’ let me talk to ya.”

Paul side-eyed him, his gaze sour. John really did look like he was about to beg, his hands clasped together. It was pitiful, his expression, his broken tone. John never swallowed his pride like this, push it aside, drop all facetiousness. 

Paul didn’t want to see it. It was unbearable to watch, John  _ groveling _ like this. 

It reflected badly on him too. Paul knew what this was, he’d  _ seen _ it before. With his wife, John’s fucking wife, back before she was his wife. 

John saw her dance with another man, then he’d gone to her face, smacking her across the face the moment she opened the door. John had phoned her for months,  _ groveling, _ begging and pleading for her to take him back. 

It was the exact same tone. John was begging for his forgiveness, groveling for Paul to take him back, to give him a chance to explain. Paul was his fucking wife, the same exact position she had been in. It was humiliating enough being fucked, being grabbed at, pushed against walls, that throbbing organ forced into him. John would whisper mindless praise into his ear, drone on and on about how “lovely,” he was, how “pretty,” Paul’s features were. It was fucking emasculating. Now this, John groveling to him, as if Paul was a ladyfriend he’d wronged, it made him sick. He felt pathetic.

Paul hated it. He hated it so much. He knew what he looked like, but he was a man. He was, oh Christ, he was. Paul had begun to despise each and every feature that’d brought about this hell. He hated the soft intonation of his voice, the way he moved. Paul’s body wasn’t feminine, his shoulders were broad, so was his torso. Hell, George was skinnier than he was. It was his damn hips, Paul’s legs. 

It was all his fucking face. His face that was plastered all over the papers and heartthrob magazines. They all loved his fucking face, Paul’s bambi eyes and the soft teardrop shape. Paul didn’t want it anymore if this is what came of having it. Paul was a man, he ought to have a man’s face. He didn’t want to be  _ cute, _ he wanted to be biting and harsh. Paul wanted to be fucking taken seriously. Fucking John, he’d said that nobody would, all because of his damn face.

Paul wasn’t a woman. He  _ took _ women. He fucked them rough and hard. If he married, his wife would answer to him. All this talk of women’s liberation, but that’s the way Paul was raised. She’d do the housework and treat him the way Paul ought to be treated. He’d respect her of course, but women had their place, and so did men.  _ Paul _ wasn’t the fucking  _ wife. _

“I swear, Paul. You deserve ta hate me for what I did, s’unforgivable. I fuckin’ hate myself for doin’it. Jus’ please, talk’ta me, please, please-”

Paul couldn’t stand a second more of this.

“Fine, fine, jus’ fuckin’ stop.” Paul hissed at him.

John’s eyes lit up, but he still looked pitiful. 

“My room.” He said, a quick point to the door.

Paul’s lips tightened, his body tensing. He put down the empty cup sharply, leaning away from John despite facing him. Paul had begun to hate the way John was always closing in on him. 

Unconsciously or not, John seemed to always have the need to get closer. It had always been like this, John gravitating towards him. Paul had no reason to think anything of it. They were close, nothing more or less to it than that. Bird’s of a feather they were, Lennon-McCartney. A happy little pair. Now he fucking knew what that was about. It made his skin crawl.

He followed John to the room. The others were here, if John laid a single hand on him he’d scream and fight him off, and the others would be there to help him. Paul didn’t fucking care about keeping the peace if it came to that. John wasn’t going to lay another hand on him.

John closed the door behind them once they were alone, turning to Paul. He let his face fall, all of the regret and guilt showing on it. Paul was unmoved, glaring back at him. His body was tense, and his arms crossed defensively. Paul was on edge, an instinctive reaction to being alone with his former mate. Paul didn’t know if it’d be the same again with him, if that reflex would ever go away.

“Paul, I said I was sorry, I’ll do anything, Paul, I swear,”

He was blubbering again. Paul’s jaw tightened. He didn’t fucking care to hear it.

John could tell his words weren’t doing anything. More regret washed over him. He took a breath.

“I know much much I fucked up, I fuckin’ know...but you’ve gotta talk to’me. Ya can’ jus’ stop. We’re in the same damn group, remember? We’ve, we’ve gotta write together for Christ’s sake. We’ve got that soundtrack coming up, Paul.”

Paul must be giving him a look. John looked sheepish, wincing at it.

“Paul…”

Paul wasn’t hurt. He hurt during the night it happened, and the morning after, but he wasn’t hurt now. 

He didn’t need John to apologize and grovel for his forgiveness. He  _ wasn’t _ John’s wife, he  _ wasn’ _ t John’s fucking ladyfriend. He’d  _ never _ agreed to any sort of intimate relation, it was  _ forced _ on him.  _ Paul _ didn’t have a lover to be wronged by. He didn’t feel heartbreak or  _ betrayal. _

John had betrayed him the moment he’d drugged and taken him in his sleep. John didn’t grovel then. He blamed Paul for putting the cameras up, bringing about his own misery, nevermind the fact that Paul was already going mad, gaps in his memory, waking up with no recollection of the night before. They exchanged blows and John beat him down, giving Paul the choice to either accept him, or throw away his success. John didn’t grovel then.

Paul wasn’t hurt. Paul was angry. Furious and completely done with it all. 

Paul felt amused by the whole situation, giving a laugh even though anger encased his chest so tight he couldn’t breathe, and made his fingertips burn.

“Don’t you get it John?” Paul hissed at him, his voice full of incredulity. “I’m never gonna be alone with ya,  _ ever.” _

John cringed.

“But, Paul…”

“ _ Never!” _

John hesitated a moment.

“Paul...how’re we supposed to write then?” John said exasperatedly, hurt in his voice. “You think the others would stay back jus’ to  _ keep an eye _ on’me? What’ll yer excuse for’it even be? They want to go out, y’know. They’re not gonna stay in an’ play marbles for Chrissake...”

Paul clicked his tongue.

“We’ll write separately, then.”

John looked dumbfounded.

“ _ Separate? _ We’ve never-”

Paul laughed.

“Well! Circumstances have changed, haven’t they!”

John seemed to deflate.

“Paul...I swear to ya. Never again…”

Paul laughed again. He kept his voice low so the others wouldn’t overhear.

“Oh, right then!” He said under his breath. “Ya won’t  _ beat  _ me again? Well...as long as yer jus’  _ fucking _ me, it’s goodly gear, in’t it? That’s a gas for the  _ both  _ of us!”

John looked as if Paul had struck him across the face. Paul was unsympathetic. He glowered at John.

“Paul...no...I meant it. I don’t want it to get to that point...ever again. If it means writing with ya,”

John’s tone was sincere. He reached out to take Paul’s hands. They went limp as John gently held them. Paul’s eyes darted to the closed door, then back at John. His heart sped up at the contact reflexifly. That’s what John’s touch filled him with now, dread. His body would tense, fill with cortisol, and he’d be unable to move.

When Paul didn’t yank his hands back, John’s body relaxed a touch, interpreting it as acceptance. The thumbs started stroking him. Paul felt nauseous, his hair stood on end. 

“Paul, please believe me. I wish I could take’it back. I’m disgusted with what I’ve done, m’fuckin’  _ disgusted _ with m’self.”

Paul’s teeth gritted. He glared at John through his discomfort. Paul didn’t care. It didn’t matter if John felt  _ bad.  _ He’d done what he did, and said what he said. He couldn’t take it back. John had shown him what he was capable of. Paul would never look at him in the same way. Paul knew what he was worth to him.

Those thumbs kept stroking his hands.It was demeaning. John always felt the need to touch his hands. The gesture was much too intimate. If John only lusted after him, he shouldn’t need to do this. 

It made Paul’s skin crawl. He didn’t like the sensation one bit, even though John’s intention was likely to soothe him. The problem was the familiarity of that touch. Paul knew it too well, those rough fingertips. Those fingertips had touched every fucking part of him, places John should’ve never touched him in the first place. The sensation put Paul right back into the memory, as if it were still happening. That alone made Paul’s stomach churn. John had an obsession with putting hands on him whenever he could. It had always been like this. 

“Paul…I won’t.” John’s eyes were boring into his pleadingly, his eyebrows drawn. “I meant it, Paul. Anything. Ya might not believe’it, but yer still everythin’ to me. Yer my  _ best mate, _ Paul. I didn’t think it’d go this far! I should’a listened to ya. I fuckin’ should’a!”

John was blubbering again. 

“I won’t, I won’t take’ya anymore, force ya like tha’! S’wrong!”

Paul looked at him.

  
“Eh?”

John gave a sharp nod, eyes clear. 

“I won’ try anythin’! no more of’it, Paul.”

Paul’s head drew a blank. What?

“Ya won’t…” He began.

“I won’ force ya! Promise. It was all wrong, I should’a stopped! Why didn’t I fuckin’ listen to ya? Ya didn’t want it an’ I…” 

John got increasingly shaken as he kept speaking, his face pale.

“I fuckin’ see’it. M’fuckin’ horrible. Fuckin’ hell, Paul. I’m so sorry, Christ.” John said. “This isn’t what I wanted. Never wanted to hurt ya with my...issue…”

John winced

“tha’s why I put ya to sleep, so ya wouldn’t know, see? I thought it best, you’d never know and it’d never hurt ya...but I shouldn’t have done tha’ even! S’wrong! Oh Christ, doesn’t look like’it, but I care for ya, Paul. I swear!”

Paul’s shoulders were still tense at the hands holding his up, but...this is what he’d been wanting to hear, wasn’t it? For John to realize what he was doing, horrified by it, stop it. Paul would have his friend back. But Paul knew irreparable damage had been done, and he’d never see John the way he did before. Not after what happened that night.

“John…” Paul said warily. His eyes flitted back to the door. The cortisol was beginning to make his hands shake. Even if Paul’s mind knew John couldn’t...not with their friends in the next room...his body didn’t John’s voice, his very presence was putting Paul on edge. His proximity. It was bringing back the memories he was trying to block out. He couldn’t face them.

“Paul, I swear...write with’me again, look’it me! I won’ do’it anymore! I want ya happy again. Ya were always so...cheery before, Paul! I’ve been fuckin ‘horrible to ya, s’not fair. I’ll fix it! I swear!”

Paul managed to get a hold of himself. He shook his hands out of John’s grip, John pulling back instantly.

  
“Promise...I won’t…”

John was still talking, his voice weak. Paul’s head was beginning to ring.

Paul flinched, hands over his temples.

“Stopit.” Paul strained. “Can’t think…”

John clammed up. Paul could still hear his breaths. Christ, even his breaths were too familiar. It sounded too similar to when John was on him...touching him. That was all Paul could think of.

Paul waited for the ringing to stop. John was still there, looking at him with guilt written all over his face. Paul detested it.

He knew John was right. They still needed to write their songs. They still had to tour, record, and the film...Paul couldn’t avoid him. It was impossible. They still had to work together, or they’d have no group.

If John stopped, wasn’t that enough? Paul would be able to regain some sense of normalcy. That’s all he’d been wanting these past four months. John was saying exactly what he wanted to hear. 

Paul realized his head was spinning. He felt dizzy.

“Paul?” John’s voice was small, like a little kid’s.

Paul grimaced, the voice bringing him back to reality.

“Why the hell should I believe ya?” Paul’s voice grew resentful. “You could be sayin’ horseshit for all I know.”

At one point in time, Paul could honestly say that he’d trust John with his life. The very same John who ended up slamming his head into a wall, violating him, telling him through roaring laughter that Paul was  _ only good for one thing. _ He didn’t know John. Paul thought he did, but he didn’t know him at all.

“How the hell do I know ya won’t jus’ jump on’me the moment I can’t yell for ‘help?” Paul seethed, his voice flat and low.

John’s face was overtaken with regret.

“I won’t, Paul, I won’t. I swear to ya I won’t.”

John’s voice broke halfway through. Paul’s head was beginning to hurt. He kept his face firm, not letting any emotion show, glaring unsympathetically at his former mate.

“Why should I believe ya?” Paul snapped. So what if John was regretful? Paul didn’t fucking care.

John’s lip was trembling. He really did look like he would cry over this. That’d be a first. Paul’s expression didn’t waver. John clasped his hands together, resuming his pitiful grovelling.

“Ya don’t trust me, Paul? Ya trusted me once, Paul...Oh god. Paul jus’ trust me again. I swear, I won’ force ya anymore! M’still me, I was ‘horrible to ya, I did ‘horrible things, but m’still yer friend from before. I swear I care for ya. I shouldn’ta done any of’it! M’so sorry, Paul. M’sorry. Please don’ hate me, Paul. I swear m’sorry.”

It was horrible listening to this. John’s voice always had a harshness to it, but it was broken in sadness as he begged, blubbering like a madman, pleading for Paul’s forgiveness. Paul was getting lightheaded again. John kept grovelling under him, hands clasped, letting go of his dignity for the sake of it. He had to, to show Paul how desperate he was, that he’d do anything to have him back.

“Please, Paul...Macca...please. M’your friend. I swear I am. Trust me again, forgive’m, please. Never again, Paul.”

Paul’s head throbbed. John’s eyes were blurry with emotion, looking at him desperately.

Paul did love him once. He did want that version of John back, but he couldn’t see him the same way. Maybe he’d returned too late.

But by god did Paul still want it back.

Back when John had been grovelling to his now-wife, he’d kept his promise, hadn’t he? From all Paul knew, he did. They were married not long after that, and their son was born. John wasn’t perfect to her, he obviously wasn’t faithful, but neither was Paul. Jane wasn’t his wife though. When Paul felt that it was time to settle down, no longer traveling as much, he’d be faithful. It wasn’t such a bad thing, was it? It made sense to sleep around. The women wanted him, and he couldn’t lug Jane around for whenever he wanted something normal for men to want. Jane was busy with her films anyhow. She’d have to stop that if Paul decided to settle down with her. Jane could be so headstrong at times.

The girls he slept with were faceless, a different one each time, no further connection. Neither of them were  _ really  _ cheating on their girls. There was no harm in it.

...but John was sleeping with Paul as well. It wasn’t just once. John slept with him whenever he decided he wanted to. Paul had lost count. There were the times John fucked him, but also when John remained fully clothed, getting some sort of sick gratification from forcing an orgasm out of Paul as he watched. Paul didn’t even know what John wanted from him. Paul wasn’t his lover, but not a one night stand. Did whatever John was doing to him even count as an affair? Paul wasn’t even a woman.

As far as Paul knew, he was a plaything for John. He was an easy thing to reach for if John, wasn’t he? A convenient option if he didn’t feel like going after a broad.

The non-stop touring was taking a toll on all of them. Maybe John really had gone mad from the pressure. Perhaps John was lacking the comfort of the emotional connection that came with physical intimacy. Maybe the girls weren’t giving him that, and it wasn’t enough. Maybe that was the reason he fixated on Paul, the lines between platonic affection and sexual desire blurring in his head. Paul was a consistent presence, as well as the person John was close to. Perhaps all of that snapped something inside him, Paul’s features soft enough for it to work.

Maybe that’s all this was, and John finally came to his senses.

John didn’t hit his wife again after that as far as Paul knew, the brief periods they were together when John wasn’t on the road. He’d pleaded for her forgiveness, and kept to his word. Maybe John would truly stop at long last.

If he didn’t, Paul would fight back. He was over keeping the peace for the sake of the group. Why was it his responsibility to keep it together? Paul would fight against him and shout, do anything to keep him away. John wouldn’t get away with it.

Hell, what would the outcome be if they were caught exchanging blows due to this? Would John be able to turn it around on Paul? That’s what he was worried about. If John accused Paul of being the one to come onto him, the press could very well believe it. Because of Paul’s  _ face _ , and his  _ posturing,  _ things Paul couldn’t control. If things hit the fan, Paul could very well go to jail. 

The others would vouch for him, wouldn’t they? They knew Paul wouldn’t…

Paul’s heart sank. The others…

George...George would believe John if he made that claim.

Paul had been the one to come onto George. He told George to touch him.

It was a stupid mistake. Paul felt disgusting, but he couldn’t take it back. He still thought he’d taken advantage of George. George was worried for him, and he would’ve gone along with whatever Paul asked. That was the type of person he was.

George said he was worried for him, that he didn’t hold it against him, but if John began making accusations...George had first hand experience. George could very well side with John, his opinion changing with the assumption that Paul made a habit of this. Rather than a moment of weakness, he’d think Paul simply a deviant. Perhaps all the women he’d slept with hadn’t satiated Paul, and he needed a forbidden thrill. Perhaps the women’s attention wasn’t enough, he needed more to feed his ego, seducing his friends if necessary.

If John was truly genuine in his remorse, truthful when he said he’d never force himself onto Paul again, it was his best bet to accept it. If John started again...he could always leave the group. Paul didn’t want to, but he just couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t want to risk another night like the one before. His pain had mostly subsided, no significant damage, but if it happened again, Paul might not end up as lucky. If John went back to it, Paul would have to get out of here. 

Paul tightened his jaw and swallowed his pride. He gave a sharp nod.

John drew his eyebrows, his eyes filling with emotion.

“Really, Paul? Ya forgive me? You do?”

His voice was so vulnerable and small. Paul never heard this tone from him, always so scathing and sharp-tongued. John sounded like a fucking kid.

Paul grimaced. He didn’t have much of a choice. He had to work with John if he wanted to stay in the group. If what John was saying was true, he wouldn’t need to give up all the work he’d put in to succeed. He could keep his fame and move forward. Paul wanted to move forward.

“Fine.” Paul mumbled dryly. “Fine. Sure.”

Disbelief grew on John’s face, then relief, then happiness.

“You do? Paul, ya forgive me? Thank’ya! Thank’ya!”

Paul only saw the wild grin John had on a split second before he was suffocated in a tight hold.

John’s arms were wrapped tight around him, and Paul began to panic. It was instinct now. It was supposed to be a friendly embrace, the intensity only from affection. Four months ago, they shared comraderly hugs like this. If it was firm and quick, it was fine for mates to do. Paul didn’t want it now though. His heart beat quickly and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. His skin went clammy and his face pale.

It was only a quick one before John pulled back, holding him loosely in his arms. The hug itself was innocent. The corners of John’s eyes wrinkled, beaming at him. Paul couldn’t reciprocate. He couldn’t think. John’s hold was too firm. Paul was in flight or fight mode.

Unthinkingly, with Paul’s face happening to be close, right in front of him, John took Paul’s mouth out of passion, pressing a harsh kiss to his lips.

Whilst his eyes were shut, John felt Paul snap out of his shock, roughly pushing John away. Paul was strong, and John stumbled back. Paul hit him sharply, right across the face with a closed fist.

John’s head rang. He didn’t react, stalling in the position where Paul had hit him. He stared at nothing, frozen in place. 

There was a stretch of silence, neither of them able to move, the only sound being Paul’s heavy breaths.

After a period, John brought his hand gingerly to his face, gently touching where Paul’s fist made contact.

John spoke after a long moment.

“Sorry. I shouldn’ta done tha’.” John said grimly.

Paul’s breaths still came heavy. His heart was beating a mile a minute.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully it’s clear that I don’t share Paul’s view on women, or any other iffy mindsets throughout the narration. 
> 
> I’ve never met the guy, so I don’t know what’s going on in that bobblehead of his, but in some interviews you can definitely tell Paul was a product of his generation. Idk if he’s changed with the times, but considering it was 1964 it could’ve been much worse tbh. They were on the better end of things considering.


	18. Chapter 18

  
  


They ended up making it to the next town over. After the show ended, they returned to yet another suite. Paul wasn’t particularly interested in going out, and it was true their soundtrack was closing in. They only had so many shows left, then they’d have a brief break to record, then they’d begin filming.

And so, he stayed in that night, alone with John. If he tried anything...Paul would fight back. He could. The only reason he hadn’t been was to keep the peace, but that was no longer a concern given the new developments. John had given him his word, and it’d be a matter of time finding out if he’d stick to it.

They sat across from each other, a round coffee table between them, both seated in their respective armchairs. 

John was nearly a quarter into his beverage, but he noticed Paul hadn’t touched his since the room service brought them.

“Not drinking tonight, Paul?”

Paul’s gaze met his. It wasn’t a friendly one.    
  
“M’not touching m’fucking drink with ya sitting there.”

John’s casual tone died in his throat.

“M’not anywhere near’it.” John muttered a bit sheepishly.

Paul’s lips twitched, a split second movement that made his nose wrinkle.    
  
“Don’t care. Ya think I even wan’ to be  _ buzzed _ around ya?”

John dropped the subject.

“Wan’ a ciggie then?”

Paul held out a hand, and John tossed him the box. Paul took one out, then held it between his teeth as he lit it, covering the flame with his hand. It was a lovely sight, Paul bringing that little thing to his lips, the smoke coming from that delicate mouth. 

Paul could sense the eyes on him, his own flitting up to John’s gaze. John looked away.

“I wasn’t lyin’, Paul.” John mumbled, not wanting to further alienate him. “Even if yer not drinkin’, swear m’done putting ya to sleep. Won’t again. Promise.”

Paul’s focus was back on his lit cigarette, taking a drag from it.

Even now, Paul’s presence was a graceful one, in the way he held his cigarette, the way he sat. Paul’s right leg was crossed over his left one, sitting relaxed in the armchair. If there was one thing he wanted Paul to know, it was that John was enamored with the entirety of his beauty. Paul wasn’t just sick fetish to him, or some lewd thing to drool over. John lusted after him, but that was only an aspect of it. Paul was intoxicating, in any context. He was captivated just looking at him.

However, he wanted Paul as his friend as well. John missed it terribly, and he’d do anything he could to have it back. John wanted to write with him, perform with him, he wanted their banter back, for Paul to trust him again. He knew Paul hated him now, and John couldn’t blame him. 

Paul began flipping through one of their notebooks. Obviously, they’d still been writing these past four months. It was their job, after all. But Paul might as well have been absent from these sessions, with the way he’d been acting. Paul didn’t speak a word more against John if they had a differing opinion. He’d simply drop it.

That was nothing like it was before. That was one of the best aspects of their dynamic, why it worked so well. They were both headstrong men, and stubborn with their wills. When they clashed, it could result in anything from playful banter to a heated argument. It was better that way, the passion. It made their music as good as it was. It had been frustrating John beyond belief, but whenever he snapped at Paul, that would make it worse. He didn’t want Paul to be this way, he wanted his mate, not some submissive thing. It didn’t matter what they did when John got a craving for him, the rest of the day, he just wanted Paul to be Paul. 

Across from John in his armchair, Paul was looking through that recent work, angrily making marks here and there. Paul stopped at a page, making a face at it.

“This is shite, right here.” Paul said, his hand tracing the paper.

Paul slid it across the coffee table between them, then leant back in his armchair. John picked the notebook up.

It was a lyric John had come up with a couple weeks back. Paul had frowned upon first reading it, but hadn’t said anything.

“Fucking nonsense this is,” Paul continued. “Don’t know what the ‘hell you were thinkin’ with’it. What’s with yer preoccupation of coming off edgier an’ edgier? We’ll jus’ look stupid singing this shite.”   
  


Despite the blunt criticism, John smiled down at the paper.

“Great to have ya back.” John said.

Paul’s eyes flitted up at him from underneath dark arched brows. They were lovely, feminine in their shape, but equally intense when Paul wanted them to be. John’s smile faded.

Paul began speaking again about the song, not missing a beat. John’s eyes were drawn to his lips. John watched them as they moved. Over Paul’s teeth, little pink tongue flitting between them. Those lips were like petals, dainty, but full, and such a lovely pink color. John remembered what they felt like. They were soft and smooth, but firm, firmer than a woman’s would be. More often than not, especially towards the end of the day, John felt the graze of Paul’s stubble. It was a masculine trait, but it didn’t put John off in the slightest. If anything, it made it impossible to forget whose lips he was kissing. It was an addicting mouth.

John could see the moisture between the lips, closer to the inside of his mouth. It was like a cunt in a way, something Paul didn’t have. Darker and pinker on the inside, moist throughout the day. Perhaps that was a reach, but that’s all John could think of watching that mouth. It was mesmerizing.

Paul’s voice was like honey, caressing his ears. It wasn’t even Paul’s intention to sound like that. If anything, Paul’s tone was more biting. John wanted to lunge across the coffee table, climb on top of him. John wanted to straddle Paul’s gorgeously curved hips, grab at Paul’s slender waist, grind down into him. If John did so, he wouldn't find the soft mound of a woman, but rather another stiffness, a hardness constrained by fabric matching his. 

Then John could suck that full, beautifully shaped bottom lip into his mouth, bite at it. John loved to bite at it. It was so plump it was hard not to. He could delve deeper. He could trace each and every imperfection of Paul’s teeth. John especially loved the sharp canine on Paul’s lower right side. John could see it as Paul spoke, as well as those rabbit-like incisors. If Paul craved him back, perhaps John could feel those bunny teeth bite down on him in return. John would kill to feel Paul’s teeth graze against his neck, bite down on his shoulder. 

Paul had stopped speaking, his gaze fixed on John with those intense eyes. John hadn’t meant to lose focus, he really did care for what Paul had to say. It broke his heart, the coldness now in Paul’s gaze when looking at him. Paul had never looked at him with lust, sure, but there used to be some familiarity in it. 

John reread the lyrics Paul had pointed out, frowning down at the notebook.

“Yeah. I see’it.” John said.

He held out the notes to Paul. John stalled as Paul didn’t move from his seat, raising an eyebrow at him. Paul’s expressions were all hostile, closed off, his defences raised. John hesitated in uncertainty, then placed it back on the table, sitting back. Only then did Paul reach over, picking the notebook up.

“Never asked ya to keep yer mouth shut, y’know...” John mumbled. Paul didn’t acknowledge the comment.

Paul kept looking through their recent work. It wasn’t all John’s, Paul had been writing his own things, but it was certainly an uneven ratio. Any of the final decisions ended up John’s, Paul instantly conceding his point of view. It had been pitiful. 

John watched in silence as Paul’s eyes moved along the paper. With his head tilted downwards, John could see the arch of those dark eyebrows, those long dark eyelashes. John’s mind stalled. Paul’s hair was dark and immaculate, such a rich shade of brown. It was soft to the touch, warm too, a nice scent to it. It contrasted beautifully with Paul’s pale skin. His pubic hair was even darker...soft and thick. John remembered how it felt to touch, the scent of it, damp with arousal and condensation. Such an intoxicating scent. John got drunk off of it.

Paul’s eyes were looking at him again. John had to break his gaze. Hell, he shouldn’t be staring. All he wanted was Paul’s trust back. John had fucked up. He’d fucked up so badly.

Hell, John should’ve never taken it this far. He knew, he  _ knew  _ what he was doing to Paul. Paul hated it, and Paul hated him. John didn’t want it to be this way. He was  _ disgusted _ with himself after that night. Stupid...that didn’t even begin to describe it. John didn’t know how he could fix it.

He wanted to put him to sleep so that he could get his fix, so he could handle Paul during the day, that was the entire point of it. He wanted to keep himself from going mad, lunging at Paul one of these days. That had been the entire point originally, to save Paul unnecessary grief! But then he’d gone and put up that camera, but John didn’t want to stop. It really was a drug, and he’d go any length to keep having it. 

He didn’t know why Paul hated it, John did all he could to make it pleasurable for him. If anything, Paul’s pleasure came first to him. He wanted to hear Paul make his sweet sounds, come apart from his hand. But in the end it didn’t matter what John’s intentions were. Paul hated every second of it, and hated John for it. John  _ had _ ended up hurting him, even though that’s what he’d sworn to never do. It was never supposed to go that far. 

It would be difficult, but John could stop, couldn’t he? He wasn’t some animal. John had resisted the temptation for a good two years since he’d discovered it in Paris. But it was the knowledge, the memory of how  _ good _ it was, having Paul, that weighed heavy on him now. That made it so much worse. He knew how Paul felt, the sweet noises Paul would make, and the scent of it. John had to block the memories out, despite how good they were. Good couldn’t even begin to describe the feeling, being inside of Paul, those long legs, soft lovely body. Being inside of Paul was unlike anything else, the perfect heat, the tightness, Paul’s heartbeat. It was even better than simply touching his body.

It was still good, feeling up that sweet body, the satisfaction of being the one to bring Paul to ecstasy. He loved coaxing noises out of Paul, those little gasps and shaky breaths, the low hum of his throat. John could press his lips on that pasty skin, taste every inch of Paul.

Fucking him was simply on another level though. Paul’s body would be pressed to his, Paul overtaking his whole being. That was the only thing that could satisfy him, being completely consumed by the feeling of Paul. Nothing else could compare to it, not even the women. They were good, tight and hot and sensitive, always wet and ready to be fucked. That’s what cunts were made for after all. But they were faceless. It got him off, but fucking Paul was nearly spiritual in comparison. It wasn’t a pleasurable hole, he was inside Paul and Paul was inside him. Not a random broad, it was his dearest friend and confidante. John craved the closeness.

John crossed his legs.

John was able to resist Paul for two years, but knowing how good it was...John wasn’t sure if he could last a week, much less a lifetime. Paul was an addiction, sitting across from him like a dessert he wasn’t allowed to have. John wanted to tap his fingers compulsively against the armrest. Maybe it would help if he had some gum to chew.    
  
John had to avoid the things that’d make his mind go to unsavory places. He had to be careful whilst looking at Paul, not let his eyes wander. It wasn’t just Paul’s face that drove him mad. Watching those long legs was torture in itself. Paul shifted in his seat, resting his elbow on the armrest, cigarette between his slender fingers, chin resting in his palm. Paul uncrossed and recrossed his legs, and John saw a flash of what was between them. Paul had no tits, but the fabric stretched down there, taunting him with the memory of what it looked like uncovered.

His mouth watered. Paul might have a knob, but by god did John like putting his mouth on it. John loved to spread those long legs apart. Paul always got so hot and bothered when John began to palm him through his trousers, squeeze him, stroke him. Paul would make the sweetest sounds, so sensitive there. 

There was a eroticism to the way it swelled as it became aroused. With girls, it was all so mysterious, but it was clear to see it with Paul. He enjoyed making it hard, getting it increasingly desperate while Paul’s voice rose and his face got flustered. It would get pink and needy and hot. He knew where Paul liked to be touched, he didn’t need to feel around blindly like the inside of a bird’s cunt. There was a benefit to external genitalia. It drove John mad. God forbid you tell that to his fifteen-year-old self, that he’d be drooling over his friend’s knob, but by god he did.

There was a hum of concentration from Paul. Paul had all sorts of vocal reflexes that he wasn’t conscious of, that drove John up the wall. John could force himself to stop staring, but he couldn’t avoid Paul’s  _ voice. _ That fucking siren call that led John to his death. Paul had to sing, John had to speak with him to get anything done. Every unconscious sound was much too similar to Paul’s little groans and hums of pleasure. It drove him mad.

It was all a matter of resisting temptation. John knew he couldn’t have it both ways, and the latter meant Paul would hate him. John could do it. He lusted after Paul, but Paul was his friend. John could do this...for him. Paul was worth it, wasn’t he?

Of course he was. John gave one last glance over Paul’s body, touching it with his eyes, before looking away.

John couldn’t believe what he’d done. His memories of that night didn’t even seem real, that it was him doing it. John had woken up the morning after with a splitting headache, feeling as if his head was being torn apart. John was still clothed, though his clothes were disheveled. There was a weight on the mattress beside him, it wasn’t an uncommon feeling for John to wake up to.

It took a moment for John to crack open his eyes, his head pounding. The sunlight in the room blinded John, causing him to wince. After a good while, he sat up, blinking until his vision got slightly less blurred (though there was always a bit of blurriness).

Looking beside him, he recognized the weight as Paul’s, and smiled. After a moment, his contentment melted into concern, then heavy unease. Paul was curled in on himself, still as he lay unconscious. He wasn’t clothed, but wasn’t covered by the duvet. There were deep bite marks on his shoulders. As John’s eyes wandered, he could see bruises on Paul’s hips.

The memories from the night before began to flood back into him. John didn’t want to remember, but each one that he recalled only connected to others. They all began to come back to him, all of the images burnt in his mind. John felt shaken to his core, disgust overtaking every part of his body. He was fucking responsible for this. He couldn’t even recognize himself in the memories, doing what he did. 

He’d said horrible,  _ awful  _ things. Things he didn’t even believe. He was drunk off the power, the hurt he could cause with nothing but his words. He tried to outdo himself with each insult, getting sick satisfaction as despair overtook Paul’s features without even laying a hand on him. In his altered state of mind, it was a sick game, seeing how far he could push, how much he could hurt Paul.

But John  _ did  _ lay a hand on him. Christ he’d done a lot more than  _ lay a hand on him.  _ Paul didn’t fucking deserve it. Hell, Paul wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t fucking deserve  _ this. _ Nobody fucking deserved this, much less Paul. Paul was the dearest thing John had. He really was. John adored him, despite all his flaws. John adored every bit of him, every strand of hair and every imperfection. Not physical ones, but Paul’s hubris and his need for control, and his impatience.

John didn’t believe his memories could be real. He would never…

But he did.

He hovered over Paul’s body that day, afraid to touch him, not trusting himself to. John’s heart had sunk. His body felt numb. It couldn’t be true. John had sworn he wouldn’t. He’d told Paul he’d be kind to him...never do him any harm. He’d broken that promise.

John knew how he could get when inebriated, but he never thought he’d go so far. 

John was able to bring himself to lay a ginger hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Paul…”   
  
Paul’s breathing became less consistent. He was waking up. He seemed unaware where he was at first, but his body tensed upon recognizing John’s voice.

Paul shifted uncomfortably, rolling onto his back. He winced at the movement, his lovely face in pain.

“No, no, no, no, no…” John had kept repeating in a harsh whisper, his voice weak.

Paul’s eyes were shut in a grimace. John was able to see more of Paul’s condition, and his chest sunk even further. Paul’s lovely body had marks, marks that he’d made. Paul had a burn on the side of his neck, on his soft stomach. John’s heart shattered as the memory flashed through his mind. Fucking hell, Christ...how could he do this? John felt close to tears.

“No, no, no…” John had kept repeating. “...I hurt your pretty  _ skin... _ Oh  _ Christ...Paul… _ ”

John didn’t know how he could fix this. Fucking hell, did he want to fix it. He wanted to take it back. He’d do anything to take it back.

John tried to lay a gentle hand on his friend’s chest, an unthinking gesture to perhaps soothe him, but Paul’s eyes shot open upon contact. Paul screamed.

John leapt back as if the touch burnt. Oh no, oh Christ no, Paul…

  
Paul winced at the noise, bringing a hand to his temple. John was frozen in place, his eyes watching Paul with horrible fear. He didn’t know what to do, what could he even do to repair the damage he’d caused.

Paul’s eyes moved to him, confusion in them. Such lovely hazel eyes. John had to watch the pain grow on Paul’s face as the memories slowly came back to him. The worst part was that there was nothing John could do to stop the memories from coming back. John wanted to stop it, he didn’t want Paul to remember, John could barely stand to. 

It was the worst thing John had ever had the misfortune of seeing, the way Paul looked at him when he remembered. He’d never seen that desolation before, the betrayal, not even from anything John had done to him before that point. It’d haunt him for the rest of his life. He never wanted to see it again.

John kept avoiding looking directly at Paul, sitting across him on his armchair. Paul had every right to despise him. John could control himself, salvage whatever was still left. 

Paul was speaking again. John glanced back at him, forcing any desire deep down. Paul’s eyes were only eyes, the same as his. Paul’s lips were only lips, his hands only hands. They didn’t exist for his pleasure, they were Paul’s genetic code, something he couldn’t control. John could ignore the feelings that came to him, not let his mind wander. He could think of unsexy things...shriveled old ladies, freezing his balls off in wintertime, puddles of vomit.

He’d seen Paul vomit, getting drunk and stumbling down city streets, the two of them. They’d cling to each other. Paul would smell strongly of liquor, of body odor. John never minded the scent of it. Some men were really foul, smelling of shit, Paul wasn’t. It was his energy, and intensity, radiating from his skin. John could get drunk off of it, the endless passion Paul had. 

John held Paul’s hair back as he expelled the contents of his stomach into an alleyway. John had gotten in a witty jab at Paul’s expense, and Paul had groaned in disgust.

John’s mind wandered to Paul whilst under the haze of alcohol. It only amplified his energy tenfold. Paul would become manic, his large eyes crazed, his cheeks pink. He’d speak loudly and sing and whoop. In their earlier days they had no reason to hold back. There was nobody keeping a constant eye on them, picking apart each of their behaviors, judgement. They were both more loose when pissed drunk. John could grab at him, and Paul would be none the wiser, just horseplay. 

When drunk, Paul was even louder whilst nailing broads. John could hear him. John often had his own girl, across their shitty dingy windowless rooms the clubs put them in. At times, John’s mind foggy with alcohol, he could pretend it was Paul under him, Paul’s voice crying out to him. John gave subtle glances to the bed opposite his. It was dark in the room, but he could see the outline of Paul’s profile, contorted in pleasure, no composure with his head so pissed drunk. 

John was doing it again.

He stopped his train of thought. He was going mad, he had to be.

Neither of them knew much about writing specific notes. They simply played the songs the way they imagined them in their heads. Paul was talking about instrumentals whilst John’s fucking head kept defying him. Paul had taken his acoustic out of the case.

Paul had pulled it onto his lap, and was glaring at John expectantly.

“Get yers.” Paul said.

John gave him a nod. John turned away from him as he reached for it. Maybe with time his mind wouldn’t be so quick to jump to those places, the memories fading, the association between Paul and sex getting less tight.

Sitting in opposite armchairs, it wasn’t quite the same mirror image as before. Paul and him used to write sitting on the floor, or on stools. They’d be face to face, eye to eye, completely in tune with each other. 

It wasn’t so different from sex, the intimacy of it. In both scenarios, Paul and him were one mind, though connected through the song rather than the pleasure and sensation. John could look deep into those hazel eyes, clearly seeing all that was in them. The songwriting culminated in a creation, coming from the both of them, how was that so different from the way the pleasures increased, culminating in release? He couldn’t understand how Paul despised the latter. It was much too similar, it didn’t seem like such a drastic step.

They continued with the song. It was a lot easier writing with Paul now that he acted the way he used to. Inevitably, there was a tension in the air, but as the minutes passed, things began to feel familiar. It made sense, they’d acted a certain way around each other for seven years, the recent development only lasting four months. Paul wasn’t quite shooting the shit with him, but he seemed less on edge. They worked well together, speaking to each other came naturally.

Paul was farther, sitting across from him, rather than face to face. Perhaps it was for the best, Paul’s features a touch blurrier. That was the vice John was trying to avoid. Still, there was the way Paul moved. John could recognize him from that alone, even with his shit vision. His eyes could find Paul across a room, mesmerized. And Paul’s voice…

_ Don’t let your gaze wander. Don’t let your mind wander. You can fucking control yourself, take accountability. You’re not a damn animal. _

John cursed himself internally. Was he really losing his mind, staring at Paul as if he were a piece of meat, his mouth watering at the thought of it? This was Paul, fucking Paul. They’d been mates for so long. Paul was his best mate. There was a time where he didn’t even see Paul in the way he did now.

John thought back even further. Paul and him used to write in his old house’s bathroom, a long time ago. The acoustics were good in there. Paul’s dad and brother would be out, and they’d play, face to face.

It seemed like ages ago now. John didn’t register any sort of attraction to Paul yet. He was only eighteen, Paul fifteen, podgy cheeked, with his hair quaffed and curled like elvis. Paul had the same arched eyebrows and delicate mouth, but he had a sort of silly look to him because of it before he grew into those features. John didn’t think much of them. Paul was only Paul to him then.

Yes, only Paul, like from before. John looked at his friend, and he saw it. Warmth bloomed in his chest, reaching all the way to his fingertips. It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, but it was welcome. His hands stalled on the chords. He thought back to those earlier days. He was initially put off by Paul’s age, but Paul had grown on him quick. They’d always got on well. That podgy faced kid who could shriek as well as little Richard, play all the things John could on guitar, better than him. He’d been the only one to call out John for using banjo chords. The nerve. They’d done so much dumb shit together just for kicks. John would never do that sort of lad shit with a broad he was pursuing. It was the same Paul in front of him today. They’d known each other for so long.

Paul had stopped too, looking at him. John’s eyes had drifted upwards as he recalled things he’d not thought of in a long while.

“Ey, Paul. Remember yer naked ladies?” John said.

That seemed to take him off guard.

“Er, what?”

“You know, back when you was in school. The ones that’d flip open.”

John could see the memory come back to Paul, his eyes flitting up. Paul’s mouth opened slightly in a grin, taking him out of the present moment. 

It was a lovely one. John could see his endearing front teeth. Paul was much lovelier like this than he was with those guarded expressions he wouldn’t let up from. Paul was so, so lovely, as his cheery self. Maybe it made him look silly, those happy little expressions, but Paul was so, so lovely. It made warmth flow throughout John’s body, tingling in his fingertips.

“Ah, yeah, not so great when my da’ found them, was’it?” Paul spoke with his hand, the one holding his cigarette loosely between his middle and index finger, the smoke emanating from the end. “Gave me a good whacking, he did. Tears.” 

Paul let out a low giggle, taking a drag from his cigarette. The smoke came from his nose in little puffs. 

The emotion in John’s gaze was likely not well concealed, a small smile on his lips. It wasn’t a lustful one, looking at Paul like he was dessert. John was looking at him with lazy adoration, the rest of the room fading into the background.

Paul’s face fell when his eyes flitted back to him. There was a silence, biting at the air. John didn’t feel the warmth.

“What’re ya tryin’ to do?” Paul said coldly, after a long moment.

John couldn’t think of a thing to say. 

They went back to their songwriting.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	19. Chapter 19

It had been four weeks since making that promise to let Paul be.

Paul had finally begun to lose some of the tension he seemed to always be carrying. He was less on edge. It seemed that he was finally beginning to believe John would stick to his word. John was fully intending to stick to it.

John had forced himself to look away if he ever found himself staring. Staring led to the thoughts that John wanted to avoid. 

But still, Paul was burnt into his mind. When drifting off to sleep, he could still remember the way Paul’s legs looked bare, long, pale, beautifully shaped. Paul would appear in his dreams. He couldn’t help it, Paul was always around, and things throughout the day were bound to appear in your dreams, that’s simply the way it worked. And he knew the way his mind perceived him. 

There was a certain dream he’d had as of late that had shaken him to his core.

It had begun simply enough. John was nailing a broad from behind, a run-of-the-mill wet dream. She had dark hair, very long too, down to her waist. John was pulling it, yanking it. It was soft and pleasant wrapped around his hand, thick too, despite its length. She seemed to be enjoying it. Somebody had been talking to him casually from out of sight, and John had been responding, what about, he couldn’t remember. It had been insignificant.

Despite being receptive to his answers, it soon dawned on John that it had been a radio announcer he’d been speaking with. In the way it often is in dreams, John took it as a mundane occurrence. The radio announcer stopped speaking, and a song began: Chuck Berry’s Johnny B. Goode. The quality was that of radio, thus it was grainy, and crackled ever so often.

_ Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans _

_ Way back up in the woods among the evergreens _

_ There stood a log cabin made of earth and wood _

_ Where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Goode _

_ Who never ever learned to read or write so well _

_ But he could play a guitar just like a-ringin' a bell _

John soon realized where he was. He was in his childhood bedroom, back at his aunt’s house. The feeling of his sheets was quite familiar, the scent and texture of them. The girl was on all fours, undressed, as he plowed her. Her head was bowed, panting, enjoying it.

John turned her over, pushing deeper. His eyes were on her body at first, but as John’s eyes drifted up to her face, he had to do a double take. It was Paul’s face. John’s hips stumbled from the surprise. Looking down, it was still a woman’s body, not a tiny thing, but slender, with breasts and curves. John was inside a cunt as well, fucking it, moist and velvety as they always were. Her voice and breaths were still high pitched, just as a woman’s would be. Paul’s face was flushed, obviously affected by the sex, but he didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the activity, as if it were normal. Paul’s hazy eyes focused on him, sort of in questioning at John’s sudden hesitance. 

John’s perception felt fuzzy again. He blinked. This wasn’t Paul’s face at all. She was just a woman, not one he knew, but likely a face he’d seen somewhere in the waking world, noted only by his subconscious. There was nothing of interest to it, a pretty face, though one of many John had the fortune of seeing. John turned her back over. The song had ended since, and the sound of the radio seemed to fade away. She buried her head in the duvet as John fucked her, her hands bunching around the sheets. John stroked her back and she moaned.

John realized after a moment, that he was no longer on his childhood bed. The ground was hard under him. He looked up. He was on a stage.

The stage lights were on, but the venue was completely vacant, only him and the girl. John looked around in confusion. There were platforms on the stage behind them, complete with microphones set up, casting thin shadows on the stage. Three guitars lay where the performers would be, and John quickly recognized them as his group’s. Even their drum set was set up, their logo unmistakably on the base drum. As he looked towards the seats, John saw that it was a large auditorium, making it all the more eerie how empty it was. The place was much too elegant as well, complete with opera boxes, as if this were a place for a symphony to be performed rather than a rock concert.

John pulled her hair back and she moaned, her head craning back. John’s eyes were fixed on the empty audience. 

John’s eyesight was shit, but he squinted up at one of the boxes. There was a figure there, a single figure, seated in the box. It was a woman. John had to focus harder, as he could barely make out her features. In all fairness, in any other instance, John could barely make out the front row, so this was an impressive feat for him.

John stopped thrusting, stalling inside her, his concentration now on the figure. The girl’s breaths came heavy, waiting for him to continue.

The woman in the box had no emotion on her face, staring down lazily at the stage, as if her mind was miles away. 

John’s heart nearly stopped. The woman, it was his mother.

John was shaken now. He leant over the girl under him, his chest touching her bare back. He whispered to her, his voice uneasy.

“Where are we?”

The girl stirred at the question, catching her breath. 

Her head turned in John’s direction, though her face was still facing away from him. 

“The show’s about to begin.” She said.

John’s heart jumped again. Her voice was deep, leagues deeper than her moans and breaths had been. It was Paul’s voice. John yanked her hair back, making her look at him. It was still just a woman’s face, now looking back at him confused.

“Who are ya?” John snapped, his voice unstable.

She didn’t respond, she still seemed confused at the outburst. After a moment, her eyes darted to the crowd, then back at him. John felt a cold sweat on his forehead. She reached out a slender hand, pointing to the audience.

John’s gaze slowly crept to where she was pointing. Upon seeing it, he felt even more confused. The venue was still completely empty, but there, sitting in the center of the audience, was himself.

John kept looking at him, unable to look away. What was he doing there?

The other John was grinning widely. When John looked at him, the John began to clap. He began cheering, rising to his feet. The sound echoed eerily through the massive, completely vacant auditorium, echoing against the walls. John stared at him in disbelief, and the John cheered louder, shouting and whooping. John didn’t know how long he stared, but the John in the audience only seemed to get more excited.

A large hand closed around John’s shoulder, John’s gaze finally detaching from the John in the audience, quickly snapping to the figure under him. John’s hair stood on end. It was Paul under him, who he was inside. Fully Paul, his own body, and not the woman’s. John sat up straight in shock. Paul was looking at him casually, a bit lazily, his expression no different than the woman’s had been earlier. Paul gently shook his shoulder again, trying to get his attention.

“Ey, the show’s about to start, Johnny.” He said again, Paul’s deep, familiar voice.

John was still horribly confused, the sweat drying on his forehead. He stared down at Paul, his mouth ajar.

Paul arched his back, his other hand curling around John’s shoulder.

“Quickly…” Paul strained, his eyes squeezing shut.

John’s eyes widened in realization. He still didn’t understand, but he didn’t need to be asked twice. Paul felt incredible around him. John began to move again. Paul’s head tilted back at the sensation, and he moaned. Loudly. John’s stomach flipped, a sharp wave of arousal being shot into him. The moan resonated deep inside him, strangled and deep, distinctly  _ Paul’s  _ voice.

John began to pick up pace. Paul clawed at his shoulders, crying out in strangled pleasure. John’s heart beat quickly, beating out of his chest, unable to look away from Paul.

He gripped tightly at Paul’s hips. Paul was receptive, his hips moving in rhythm. It was so good, incredible, Paul not only accepting, but moving  _ with  _ him. Their cohesion, it was impeccable. 

Of course it would be, it was like their music,  _ exactly _ like their music. The way their minds came together in those times, face to face, eye to eye, nothing else present except their unanimous process. This was simply another level of it, both minds in unison, pursuing a shared goal. That’s how it was supposed to be, their union. It was predestined, their partnership. It was the reason they were as damn successful as they were. They were born to complete each other, Paul was his perfect match, a perfect fit, in more ways than one. 

John fucked harder into him, falling onto him, and Paul reciprocated in equal intensity. Their bodies pressed tightly to each other’s, as close as they could get. John felt like the lines between their physical forms were blurring, Paul becoming a part of him, and him becoming a part of Paul. John raised his head, cupping Paul’s face, looking blurrily down at him. Paul looked back with equal passion.

John took his mouth. Paul’s arms wrapped tightly around John’s back. It was heavenly, the feeling indescribable to John, Paul holding him tight in return,  _ needing  _ him, wanting to be even closer. Paul’s  _ legs _ wrapped around him, and John wasn’t able to think. He breathed in Paul’s scent as if it were a drug, delving deeper into his mouth, Paul returning the intensity. It was heavenly, indescribable pleasure.

The image faded. No, no, no, no, no.

John forced himself to focus on it. He couldn’t lose focus now. Paul. Paul. Paul…

He concentrated hard, trying to remember how it felt inside of Paul, how Paul’s face looked. He focused his entire mind on remembering what Paul’s face looked like. He had it completely memorized, every little detail, committed to memory. He knew it like the back of his hand. In a room full of people he could immediately find him, the rest of the crowd fading into the background.

John refocused. He could see Paul, breathing heavily as he looked up to him. There he was, beautiful Paul. John smiled madly as his breaths came shallow, Paul smiling back once he did. There he was, his best mate, his partner, Paul. Paul wanted him. John was nearly there, he was so close, Paul bringing it out of him.

John wrapped his arms tight around Paul’s body tight, but kept his eyes open, fearful of losing the image again, his forehead resting against Paul’s. He stared deep into those lidded eyes, Paul’s breath landing hot, combining with his. John pushed Paul’s bangs back, exposing his forehead. Paul’s hair was damp with condensation, heated against his fingers as they ran through it. Paul’s eyes fell shut, shivers through his body at the sensation. John breathed him in, his lips against Paul’s cheek, soft yet firm, Paul’s stubble grazing against them.

Paul’s hips were rolling with his, grinding up into him. John took it as an invitation to puck him even harder. His movements were getting jerkier, losing composure as his release neared.

It came soon. He held Paul tight as the release burned through him, Paul’s name illegible in his harsh exhales. Paul seemed to reach his own at the exact same moment. He rocked desperately into Paul, releasing every drop. Paul clawed at his back from the intensity of his, crying out, from pleasure this time, rather than fear, pain, no humiliation from being unable to hold it back.

  
John’s head had gone blank at the release, but the pleasure gradually ebbed. He stayed inside of Paul, his vision becoming less fuzzy. Adoration replaced it, blooming inside of him. He raised his head. He slowly stroked Paul’s face with his thumbs, and Paul looked up at him, John’s affection being returned in his gaze. John couldn’t begin to comprehend it, the emotion that it gave him. His skin buzzed with it, yet his heartbeat had slowed to a crawl. It was as if time stood still, the warmth of it. Paul was absolutely lovely, if that could even describe it. Paul’s nose was wrinkled in a little smile, his cheeks soft and full. Paul’s eyes shone with it, the emotion captured so well in those eyes. It was a lazy look, completely content. John brushed back Paul’s bangs again, running his hands through it, cooling Paul’s heated scalp. Paul’s eyes fell shut at the sensation.

“M…” John mumbled nonsensically, his lips barely moving, barely audible. His tone was unrecognizably soft, and so was Paul’s peaceful expression. “...s’ so good…”

John would be happy to shut everything else out, and stay in this moment indefinitely. He didn’t care where he was. It didn’t matter. He played at the soft ends of Paul’s hair.

John was pulled out of it, violently, as he was yanked off of Paul by the back of his shirt, pulled to his feet angrily with callous disregard. John’s entire body leapt in surprise.

John turned to his assailant, and was swiftly slapped across the face. John stumbled back, wincing, eyes squeezing shut, holding his hand to his face.

He looked up to the man. It was Paul, his hair immaculate, fully dressed in his concert attire, complete with his Chelsea boots. John was nowhere as dressed up, only wearing trousers, his unbuttoned dress shirt hanging off him, wrinkled and disheveled from the earlier activity.

“The hell are ya doin’?!” Paul shouted furiously. “The fuck are ya doin’ to ‘him?!”

John put his hands up in defense, but Paul didn’t lunge at him, only standing there enraged, his fists clenched.

John shook his head dumbfounded. He didn’t understand.

John’s eyes flitted quickly to the Paul he’d just been with, still laying on the stage. He was still undressed, his legs spread, lying peacefully as his breaths returned to normal. The dampness on his skin was drying, his face sweet and pink, eyes closed in contentment, lips parted as he took breaths. Paul’s prick was softening on his stomach, John’s fluids slowly leaking out of him.

When John looked quickly back at the dressed Paul, it wasn’t Paul. It was his own self, dressed in concert attire, glaring daggers at him. John could only stare confused.

“I don’ understand…” John told him. What was he doing here? What was happening?

The other John’s eyes flashed in fury at the question, His face growing red with anger.

The other John gritted his teeth, but pushed down the anger. He switched his attention to the Paul laying on the stage, attempting to pull him up by the arm.

That made panic shoot through John, his face going pale.

“No, no! Don’t take ‘him!”

Paul was sitting up now, confused, but going along with the other John, who intended to lift him to his feet.

John shot to the seated Paul, grabbing him tightly from behind. The Paul turned his head, looking back at him questioningly. Shock flashed across the other John’s face, before returning to fury.

“Let go of’him!” He snapped.

Paul looked back at the other John, still uncertain.

“Leave him!” The other John said again. 

John shook his head, dumbfounded. This seemed to make the other John even angrier. He jerked Paul’s arm, but John held on tighter. Paul wasn’t offering any protest, and John could feel Paul’s gentle warmth against his skin, he should let them be!

The other John tugged again at Paul’s arm, trying to pull him to his feet, growing increasingly irritated at John’s reluctance to let up.

“Stopit! Give’him up!” The other John hollered at him, his face going red. “He doesn’t belong to ya. We need’him!”

John shook his head, his mouth ajar, his eyes frantic.

“No!” He shouted back, out of desperation rather than anger, completely irrational. “No! No!”

The other John stamped his foot sharply out of frustration, his chelsea boot making a loud thud, echoing throughout the auditorium. He was getting fed up with him, John could read his expressions well. The other John was fuming, tugging at Paul’s arm with less care, trying to pull him out of John’s grasp.

The other John gave a final yank, impossibly strong, much stronger than John would’ve been, or any other man. The Paul was pulled from him, and John began to panic all over again.

“No!” He shouted.

John leapt at him, yanked Paul back, pulling Paul back against his chest. The other John’s eyes widened in disbelief. John closed his eyes, burying his head in Paul’s neck.

“Stopit!” The other John shouted, the tone was more frantic than before. John’s eyes shot open. He sounded almost...afraid. Looking at him, he sure enough had it on his face. His double’s hands were raised as if he wanted to do something, but was afraid to, frozen in place. “Ya...ya don’t know what you’re doin’! Ya have to let ‘him go! Ya have’ta let ‘him go  _ now!” _

The fear in his voice worried John, but he still couldn’t let go. He needed this Paul, this Paul wanted him. He couldn’t let his other self take him.

The other John went pale when he still didn’t let go, shaking his head, his mouth ajar.

John felt the Paul slipping from his grip, and John panicked. He gripped Paul tighter, and his arms...they sunk into him...as if Paul were made of clay. 

John’s panic became worse, his heart beating out of his chest. He frantically tried to rebuild him,  _ fix _ him, but Paul lost more and more of his form. John cried out from helplessness. Paul’s body slowly lost its solidity, going from clay, to gel, sliding through his arms. John was sitting over a grate. John realized he was sitting over a grate. He looked down in horror. Paul was slipping through his fingers, melting into the grate, disappearing into the nothingness below.

“No, no, no…” John kept repeating. He tried to grab what he could, salvage even the tiniest fragment of him. It was no use, Paul was slipping through his fingers like oil, his skin coming back dry. John cried out, staring desperately into the darkness beyond the grate. No, no, no, no, no.

“Paul!” He cried out, the second he found his voice. His eyes blurred with the intensity, his entire body shaking. He had  _ just  _ been holding him. John could still feel his physicality, the give of Paul’s skin, his warmth. 

John’s gaze was forcibly jerked from the darkness of the grate. The other John had grabbed him by the shoulders, violently shaking him.

“Ya fuckin’ shithead!” The other John shrieked. “ _ Look’it what you’ve done! _ We can’t go’on now. How the hell are we supposed’ta fuckin’ play without our bassist? You fucking cunt, we’ve got the fuckin’ show about to start!”

John still hadn’t processed what had happened to Paul. His head was ringing. Paul had melted right in front of him, and he could still feel how his body melted in his hands. John couldn’t breathe. His hands were shaking. Paul...oh god...Paul…

The other John let him go with a jerk, standing up and drawing a furious breath. He tugged at his hair in exasperation as he paced, the sound of his Chelsea boots clunking against the stage deafening as it rang through the empty ballroom. John only watched, frozen in place as he knelt, unsure of what to do.

The other John turned sharply on his heel, squinting out to the audience, straining his eyes to see. 

John was about to look as well, but he recoiled violently as a thunderous voice filled the entire auditorium, pounding against the inside of his head. He clasped his hands hard over his ears to block it out, but it was too much.

**_“HERE THEY ARE!!! JOHNNYYY AND THE MOONDOGS!!!!!”_ **

The deafening noise became even worse when the cheering began. John’s teeth vibrated. The auditorium was still completely empty, but horrible cheers and shrieks reverberated from the empty seats. John didn’t understand how it was possible.

John heard the distinctive sound of more Chelsea heels thunking against the stage. He was still frozen in place, eyes squeezed shut, hands clasped over his ears. The shrieks became even louder. John flinched, trying to escape the sound. He felt the vibration of the footsteps.

John craned his head up, teeth gritted, straining to look at the stage with the lights so bright. The other Jon had taken his place on the platform, his hand raised, addressing the crowd. He’d picked up his guitar, slinging the strap over his shoulder. John strained his eyes to look at the others. There was George, spots on his face, hair quaffed up like he used to have it many years ago. He’d forgotten how much George had grown over a short period. He used to be even more so lanky, his awkward posture and long knobbly fingers. He had the leather gear they used to wear before Brian came along.

As his gaze shifted, John had to do a double take, unsure if his eyes were failing him. It was horribly bright now on the stage, John was baking in the heat from it, but sure enough, preparing to play base guitar...was Stuart. But...it wasn’t possible...Stuart was  _ dead. _

John pushed hard against his temples as his head rang. His vision blurred at the edges from the noise. Pete was at the drumset. John squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the tuning of the guitars, before even a second to catch his breath, they shot straight into their first track. 

_ Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans... _

_ Way back up in the woods among the evergreens… _

Every sound seared into his head. Unable to even think over the noise. It pounded through him, making his body shake from the vibrations. The shrieks were as loud as the band, despite the amplifiers and speakers turned to their maximum volume.

_ There stood a log cabin made of earth and wood... _

_ Where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Goode… _

_ Who never ever learned to read or write so well... _

_ But he could play a guitar just like a-ringin' a bell…! _

John forces his eyes open. He looked into the grate Paul had disappeared down. The music still made his head ring. Still, he focused with all his might. His eyes searched desperately, but all he could see was darkness beyond it.

_ Go go! _

_ Go Johnny go go! _

_ Go Johnny go go! _

John’s hands fumbled with the grate, but he was able to get it off. With his palms flat against the stage, he craned his head into the darkness, straining his eyes with all his mights. He couldn’t see a thing. 

John reached his hand down into it, feeling around blindly, desperately.

_ Go Johnny go go! _

_ Go Johnny go go! _

_ Johnny B. Goode!! _

John’s fingertips grazed against...something! His heart leapt. He strained for it, reaching down as far as he could.

_ He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack... _

_ Go sit beneath the tree by the railroad track… _

_ Oh, the engineers would see him sitting in the shade... _

_ Strumming with the rhythm that the drivers made… _

_ The people passing by they would stop and say... _

_ "Oh my what that little country boy could play!” _

The music was pounding in his head, but John felt the smallest bit of triumph. His hand closed around an object. It was small and round, cool to the touch, firm, yet a give to it, a slickness to it’s surface. John pulled it up from the grate. He sat up on his heels, hands closing around it, unsure what to think.

_ Go go! _

_ Go Johnny go go! _

_ Go Johnny go go! _

John tentatively, with great apprehension, uncurled his fingers.

_ Go Johnny go go! _

_ Go Johnny go go! _

_ Johnny B. Goode!! _

John’s entire body went numb, his heart stalling, at seeing what he’d pulled out. It was an eye. A single eye, staring emptily back at him.

It was Paul’s eye.

John’s eyesight was shit, but he could recognize the hue of the iris anywhere. His hand trembled, his mouth parted, starting at what was looking back at him. He was sitting on the stage, the deafening music filling his entire head, the shrieks impossible to withstand. John’s head throbbed with the intensity of it, but he was unable to look away from the eye resting in his trembling palm, his surroundings fading into the background as he fixated on it.

The music continued deafeningly loud. It rang in John’s head, but he could barely make sense of it. He stared down at the eye, unable to even blink. Paul’s eye. He felt as if a hand was gripping him, tight, squeezing his lungs tight, a painful vice-like grip that made it impossible to even breathe. John’s hand shook as he held the eye in his palm, staring back at him sightlessly. John didn’t know what to think, but he felt like he’d been doused with ice-water. His entire body was cold. His lips trembled.

_ His mother told him "someday you will be a man... _

_ And you will be the leader of a big old band… _

_ Many people coming from miles around... _

_ To hear you play your music when the sun go down… _

_ Maybe someday your name will be in lights... _

_ Saying "Johnny B. Goode tonight!" _

John was consumed in his entirety, looking down at that eye. Shivers were coursing throughout his entire body.

_ Go go... _

_ Go Johnny go... _

_ Go go go Johnny go... _

_ Go go go Johnny go... _

_ Go go go Johnny go... _

_ Go... _

_ Johnny B. Goode…! _

The exact second of the song’s abrupt end, the lights went out, the deafening sound gone as quick as it come. John recoiled, dropping the eye, pulling back as if it burnt. He scooted back, horrified, scrambling away from the grate frantically, his eyes crazed, his breath shallow and panicked.

John’s back hit a figure, his heart beating out of his chest. John violently whipped his head around looking up at it.

The tension slipped from John’s body in a wave of immeasurable relief. He let out a heaved breath, looking up at him.

Paul, dressed in his concert attire, his mohair suit and Chelsea boots, looking down at him. John was overcome by emotion, turning his body around on the floor, staring up at him madly. Paul looked a touch concerned, but had no emotion beyond that.

Once he was able to comprehend it, John choked out his name.

  
“Paul!”

John’s lips began to move soundlessly, unable to find words to say. He wrapped his arms tight around Paul’s legs, kneeling on the floor. John hardly kissed them in relief, his lips being met with the stiff fabric. He tightened his arms, feeling Paul’s solidity. 

“Paul...Paul…” He was blithering nonsensically. He was nuzzling into the fabric, getting it damp from his tears and lips.

“John…” Paul said, the sound escaping his lips like honey. John’s heart stalled, his body going numb. His hair stood on end. It wasn’t Paul’s voice.

That voice...it was his mother’s.

“John...What’re you crying about? Silly boy…”

Paul’s lips moved into a smile, looking affectionately down at him. It was Paul’s face, but the expression wasn’t his. 

  
  


“M-” John began. His voice died in his throat. His voice felt small. “...Mum...?”

Paul couched down, meeting John’s eye level. He still had that gentle smile. John was frozen in place. 

“C’mere. Come now, Johnny. It’s alright.”

Paul embraced him softly, a hand running over his back, soothing him. John was unable to move, but he melted into the hold, his skin tingling with comfort. He drew a shaky breath. It was Paul’s scent around him, Paul’s arms, but the way Paul was holding him...it wasn’t his.

“Shh, John. It’s alright.”

Paul’s hand was in his hair, stroking through it, as if he were a little kid. John shivered. It made him feel a way he couldn’t explain. He felt weak, but he didn’t feel bothered by it. He’d been so afraid, but things were alright now. He held Paul back tightly, his fingertips being met with the feeling of the mohair fabric. It was how Paul smelled before concerts, having just gotten prepared, clean suit on, hair immaculate. It would only get mussed up again, Paul shaking his head, shouting, jerking around the stage, tapping his foot in tune with the music. No wonder the girls got so riled up. Paul’s face would get red and damp with sweat, his body full of endorphins and adrenaline.

John buried his head in Paul’s shoulder. Paul kept stroking him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one really got away from me, boys.


	20. Chapter 20

Five weeks since John had made that promise.

It was like a disease. John wanted his friend back more than anything, but by god did the familiar sickness wear away at him. The obsession. It was the same vice that’d made John sedate him in the first place. 

He didn’t want to do it then, either! God, he’d never  _ wanted  _ to take advantage of Paul’s trust! He wanted Paul as his friend, he’d never intended for it to go further. So long as he could have Paul on occasion, curb his desires, he would be completely happy carrying on as normal. John wouldn’t have ever done it if it wasn’t completely necessary. 

John was beginning to remember how bad it was, what had first driven him to do what he did. John had gotten so comfortable with the way things were, having Paul as often as he wanted, and forgotten the madness that came from suppression. The only reason he did it in the first place was to avoid it becoming too much, lunging at Paul one of these days.

The desire wasn’t fading, it was only becoming worse. He’d had a taste now, much more than a taste. It was now worse than ever.

Paul had gone out that night. John had as well, but he’d since returned to the suite. He’d had enough of it.

Moreover, John was afraid of getting pissed drunk like the time before. He didn’t trust himself anymore. John shivered if any of those awful memories came to him. He hadn’t gotten that drunk since. The thought sickened him.

So there he was, alone in their hotel room, dark save a dim nightstand lamp, reflecting against the smoke from his cigarette.

John could’ve found a broad to fuck at least, but he didn’t feel like it. Regardless, the best girl at the place had been a Paul fan evidently. She came onto him strong, and Paul was happy to reciprocate. John had left not long after that, not caring to see it play out.

John didn’t care about the broads Paul fucked. He felt no envy for these women. Paul craved them, but had no further affection for these women. John knew this.

Paul was probably fucking her by now. John could picture it. His eyes drifted upwards. Paul’s hips thrusting quick and jerkily into that receptive cunt, delightfully energetic as Paul always was, his delicate mouth slack and his arched eyebrows furrowed. Paul’s face would get damp and pink in excitement. 

Maybe Paul was able to get a room for them, or maybe he was just rutting her into the wall. Ah...Paul…

Maybe she wanted to give him a nosh, or a handie. Out of the four of them, it seemed a slight bit that Paul drew in the girls most inclined to giving. It made sense. Paul had the sort of face that made you want to take care of him, please him. The Paul girls, save the innocent sentimentalist ones, loved taking over for Paul, riding him, getting pleasure from his cries and shouts of affirmation. These girls wanted to see Paul come undone.

John wasn’t immune to it himself, regardless of knowing Paul’s true self. That face had a power to it, a power that certainly shouldn’t have been given to conniving Paul. He used it to get what he wanted, he did. Paul knew the sway his features had over others.

Fucking Paul…

John paced around the room they shared, smoking his cigarette angrily. It could only provide him with so much satisfaction. He was glad Paul felt safe enough rooming with him again. John never tried anything at night after Paul had fallen asleep, that much he could say. John wouldn’t disturb his friend’s rest.

Paul’s things were strewn around. Paul was the neat sort, immaculate as in his dress, but he hadn’t bothered tidying up before rushing back out to the clubs. 

Despite himself, it gave John a peaceful feeling, the domesticity of Paul’s things about. Paul’s case was open beside his bed. Paul’s Chelsea boots he wore during concerts had been discarded by the closet. Paul had quickly changed into something more casual before going out, tidying himself up somewhat, his hair disheveled from the concert. The suits they wore during performances, despite being instantly recognizable, were a bit costumey for clubs, too showy. Paul’s dress shirt was discarded on his bed, the one he’d been wearing earlier.

John put his cigarette bluntly out on his nightstand’s ashtray, glaring at the thing.

Fucking Paul.

John left his cigarette there, balanced on the side of the ashtray. Unthinkingly, he walked to the garment, picking it up out of frustration. John sat on the edge of Paul’s bed. 

He didn’t know what benefit he could gain from that mess of thin fabric. Paul wasn’t inside of it anyhow.

But Paul had been. He’d put it on earlier in the evening, buttoning it, skin disappearing under it as he did so. John made sure not to look, but it was so difficult for his eyes not to land on him, if only by accident. Those dressing rooms could be quite small, all crowded around each other, not to mention Neil, Mal, and others too. They had to keep moving, out of the dressing room and onto the stage, then off to something else, the afterparty, a quick conference, who knew.

John felt the material in his hands resentfully. He was envious of a damned article of clothing. John frowned. He could be nailing a broad...like Paul was. Instead, what the hell was he doing? Brooding in his hotel, clutching onto a shirt like a lovesick schoolgirl. He felt a bit pathetic, really.

John grew more bitter. These girls, if he wasn’t fucking Paul as well, fucking them didn’t satisfy him. If anything, they frustrated him further. He loved to fuck broads, but past that, what was the point of doing it, if he wasn’t enjoying himself? 

He had a wife. In a way, it was cruel to her, sleeping with so many women just because he could. That wasn’t a good reason to do it. He was risking knocking them up, accidentally pursuing a delusional one who thought she was now his girl. 

It made sense to sleep around, how else would he get what was natural for a man to crave? It wasn’t like he could lug his wife along with him. Who’d take care of his son? Hah, a happy family traveling about, his little boy getting exposed to mad press agents, liquor, and clubs, those screaming fans. 

It was just masturbation at this point, fucking these women. What was the use if they only frustrated him? If John wanted to get off, he could use his hand. 

John ground his teeth, shifting in his seat. Fucking Paul. He might be happy nailing various broads all night long, but John wasn’t. It was unfair to John. Paul had it so easy, the least he could do was let John have a taste, if only once in a while. John didn’t even fuck him everyday. 

He wouldn’t have even beaten Paul so horribly that night if Paul hadn’t been so unnecessarily cold to him. John was drunk, and amorous, and Paul had shut every one of his advances for no good reason. John got carried away that night, but if Paul had just  _ reciprocated,  _ things could’ve been completely different. Maybe they could’ve avoided all the grief and pain now tearing them apart. 

He would’ve fucked Paul with giddy looseness, kissing his skin, softer things maybe slipping through his speech, the alcohol lowering his inhibitions. Regardless, John would’ve made sure Paul had gotten off, enjoyed it.

No...It was horrible what John had done. It didn’t matter what should’ve been or could’ve been. There was no excuse for it. He was making Paul miserable, with everything he’d been doing. 

He’d been kind, he’d been rough, but Paul had been distraught from the very beginning.

John’s hands worried at the dress shirt he was holding, familiar insecurity unpleasantly welling inside him, like acidic liquid in his chest. Was it John? Was he not good enough?

The broads liked him. John knew he was a man, and that Paul didn’t care for them. But...John didn’t either. He liked women himself, their softness and their delicate beauty. Men simply didn’t excite him...in that way. It was only Paul for him. Paul wasn’t a woman, and he adored each and every masculine characteristic that made him a man, but only on Paul. 

Paul was an equal. He challenged him, he stood at John’s height, foul and stubborn. With women, they seemed to always need John’s approval. They chased after him. They would hold their tongue when John spoke with his mates, a demure presence on his knee, seen but not heard. John liked it good enough, but he liked that Paul wasn’t that. Paul was a man, and he acted like one. He wasn’t subservient to John, and that made him crave him all the more.

It shouldn't matter whether Paul felt attraction to him or not. John did, but there was their closeness too. They had a closeness Paul never had with his girls, not even Jane. John knew Paul had troubles with her (because they were mates for god’s sake, of course he’d know these things). He knew Paul had troubles with her stubbornness. Paul wanted his girls submissive, doing whatever he said, and Jane wasn’t that. She was very headstrong, goals she wanted to follow that went beyond being Paul’s loyal little housewife.

He didn’t see  _ why _ Paul needed to be attracted to him. John would pleasure him, and adore him. Paul loved to be adored. Paul could still fuck his broads. Paul didn’t care for them, so John didn’t care if he did. John didn’t understand why it was so horrible to have him simply in addition. 

Christ, it wasn’t as if Paul had so many other hangups. Sure, he liked chasing after the hottest girls if he could, but in the end, he wouldn’t mind dropping his standards to ultimately end up in a nice wet cunt. Paul would fuck all sorts of women, the lovely and the plain. If Paul couldn’t get one, he’d fuck into his damn hands. Always good for it, he was. 

Think of him as “cute” all you wanted, but more often than not, his primary concern was getting his rocks off, his mind in the gutter, thinking with his prick. John had a hunch that if Paul went too long without cumming, he’d implode, rutting against the walls and crying out.

John’s eyes narrowed. Maybe then Paul would give up his pride and finally let John fuck him.

Before he’d realized what he was meaning to do, John had brought the shirt up to his face, breathing it in. His eyes fell shut the second the scent hit him.

John’s eyes opened again, the shirt bunched up in front of his face. John had a brief moment of clarity, self-conscious of what he was doing.

If Paul knew what he was doing...he’d laugh at it...or maybe he’d just be disturbed. In either case, it was pathetic, holding a discarded garment to his face just to get a whiff of him.

John clicked his tongue. It was Paul’s fault he’d been pushed to something as juvenile as this. He couldn’t even get close to Paul anymore. Out of respect, and to keep a hold of himself, John kept his distance. It was best not to get too close. Besides, even if he did, Paul’s defenses would immediately be put up. It wasn’t comfortable for either of them. John hated it, how Paul cringed the moment he came too close, even after these five weeks. It hurt him. Paul used to not mind at all, they’d been so comfortable near each other before.

The scent...John breathed it in again. Absolutely irresistible. It was like a drug to John. John sucked it in again and again. The shirt had picked it up, the unmistakable odor of Paul’s body, like perfume to him, heated and energized from the performance. It wasn’t a flowery smell, or a subtle one, but it was Paul’s, and it had never been foul. John couldn’t get enough of it, the scent of Paul’s excitement. It was infectious when Paul got into the swing of things. There was also the more subdued scent of his skin when it was clean, and of course, the intoxicating aroma of Paul’s arousal.

The association of the scent too. John was so used to every aspect of Paul, burnt into his memories, after so many years of close proximity. John knew Paul as well as Paul knew himself, like the back of his hand. John liked it that way. Paul was a part of him as he was a part of Paul.

John breathed through the fabric, getting drunk off of it. His eyebrows furrowed angrily as he thought to himself. Paul was a part of him, and he always would be. It would always be that way, JohnandPaul. Some dismissed their group as a passing fad, but John knew they’d be relevant for years to come. They were a winning combination, their influence was explosive. They would be known as JohnandPaul for years and years, remembered as that for the rest of time. John was happy for it to be so.

John kept the dress shirt bunched in his hand. His thoughts absentmindedly wandering, he walked over to his suitcase. John knelt over it, rooting through his clothing and belongings.

They went to so many interviews, press conferences, other shit. They were given little trinkets now and then. Some things caught his eye, but John didn’t keep most of them. It didn’t make sense with how much they traveled. They were only a novelty to be offered.

Recently though, a couple days maybe, John interviewed alone for some heartthrob magazine, and they offered him their recent issue to flip though, if only for kicks. However, the cover had immediately caught John’s eye, throwing him off. The interview must’ve thought him a looney, the way John stared, spacing out for a moment. 

A portrait took up the entirety of the cover, a photo of Paul. It was an especially lovely one too, capturing the gentleness of his features, Paul’s lips parted, lidded eyes looking lazily at the photographer. John couldn’t recall when it would've been taken, they were photographed constantly it seemed. Paul looked rather nice in black and white, amplifying the striking contrast between his dark hair and pale skin, his arched dark eyebrows and large downturned eyes. Paul’s head was turned away only slightly, eyes moved to look towards the camera.

John had taken the magazine with him, and it’d been stuffed in his suitcase ever since. It felt like a silly thing to do, despite it being solely out of impulse. In a way, John was acting like the target demographic for the fucking magazine, purchasing the fucking thing after being mesmerized by Paul’s pretty face. 

John sneered at the idea. He knew Paul better than those girls ever would. Those articles were likely full of saccharine nonsense, romanticizing the idea of Paul as best they could. It was a business. Paul was good at it too, telling those interviewers what girls would want to hear. It came so easily to Paul, acting romantic-like, or endearing in his cute-ness. Paul likely didn’t have any malicious intent behind it, he  _ was _ like that in a way. He was a natural people pleaser.

_ A fucking prick-teaser. _ John thought to himself contemptuously. Paul had one of those trustworthy faces, his sweet features and baby-fat. He easily presented himself as what the magazines wanted to present him as. You could hardly tell by speaking to him what a skirt-chaser he was. John  _ knew  _ what Paul was like, but his personality genuinely didn’t match up. He truly  _ was _ playful, not putting on a show. Suppose you could be childish, but also dead set to get off once the opportunity presented itself.

Ha! The bunny-rabbit.

John pulled out the magazine, staring grimly down at it. The room was dark, but enough light from the window came in. There he was, the fucker causing him so much frustration. It wasn’t even Paul’s fault in a way, having those features and mannerisms. John felt a strange mixture of resentment and affection, recognizing that face. Of course, he immediately saw it as Paul, his best mate, his dear friend and partner all these years, a beauty that pleasured the eye, but also as something constantly held over him, always close by, but something John was never,  _ ever _ allowed to have. 

Paul hated him. John knew he did. Paul would never see him in the way he used to. He knew Paul used to care and trust him a great deal. He’d never wanted to lose that. John didn’t want Paul to hate him, even if Paul saw him as nothing more than a brother. He didn’t care  _ how  _ Paul chose to love him, as long as he did.

He’d be more than glad for Paul to see him as a brother, he missed it desperately. Paul not being on guard, speaking filthily to him without restraint, the way he’d never speak to the press. Behind closed doors, Paul dropped any façade of innocence, regardless if he were aware that he had been putting on a front. He was still the same Paul they saw, playful and cheery, yet he didn’t have to avoid speaking crass. 

_ “Seen that broad in the front row, Johnny? Nearly popped a stiffy onstage. She was right mad over’me.” _

_ “Ey, ya’know I can barely see me hand in’front of my face, Macca.” _

_ “Oh, hell you was missing out! Tits out to here, mate!” _

_ Paul had demonstrated, eyes wild, holding his hands out in front of his chest. It was surreal how his excitement was exactly the same type speaking in the interviews. Paul really was like this. _

_ “Had my eyes fixed on her the whole time. Kept waiting for one of’them to pop out.” _

_ He took on a sad tone. _

_ “Never did mate, but…” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Paul immediately reverted back to his mad cheer. _

_ “Aye, she was this blonde, see?” Paul’s eyes drifted upward. “Can’t believe ya can’t pick them out from the crowd, if ya tried the rest of’them would swarm ya.” _

_ He scoffed. _

_ “Well! C’mon mate, won’t get our knobs wet sittin’ up ‘here! C’mon, Johnny! The clubs! The clubs!” _

Back the way it was, Paul won’t cringe when John touched him. He didn’t think of it at all, their closeness. John hadn’t even been pushing his boundaries either, it was natural for them. Good mates, the two of them. Two sides of a coin. When they took a seat, they gravitated towards each other. They were so used to sharing close quarters. They’d slept tops to tails very often, in cramped beds too. John enjoyed it, but the proximity wasn’t an issue to Paul, so it was alright. 

There were things that they couldn’t do. John couldn’t be blatantly tender in his touches. He couldn’t put his lips anywhere, and he couldn’t take a grip of Paul’s hands, unless it was to lift him to his feet. John was able to take playful jabs at him. That was normal. 

Under the guise of horseplay, there were many things John could do that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. Rough touches. He could give him a shove, grab him suddenly to give him a start. He could jerk Paul by the arm, tug him along. Paul wasn’t a frail woman, it was highly unlikely to accidentally hurt him with it. It came more naturally doing it to a mate, anyhow. Women could be so humorless when it came to these things. 

John didn’t have to hold back, yet there was always a slight gentleness he had with Paul, not present when poking fun at his other mates. It was innate, really. He was more prone to messing with Paul, too. He enjoyed the reactions he’d get. He liked to toy with the hairs on the back of Paul’s neck, annoying little things like that. He could do a crawling motion with his hand, creeping up Paul’s body. Paul would play along at times, continuing the trail with his own hand. He’d gotten used to the little gags John would pull on him, another one of their inside jokes.

If he were especially lucky, he could give a harsh squeeze to Paul’s thigh, usually under tables, if he’d said something especially stupid. He didn’t do it too often, always rough enough to not be construed as anything deeper. A lingering squeeze, however, that would throw Paul off.

Paul wouldn’t mind any of it. He’d laugh at it, his large stupid smiles that puffed up his cheeks, making those sweet lines appear by his eyes. He’d sometimes play along, an annoyed look. Good humor, him. Nobody else would pick up on it, even when cameras were on them. It was likely endearing to the fans, all of their genuine comradery. Their carefree nature seemed to especially resonate with them.

John missed it. He really did. He missed writing with Paul, the two of them alone, going far off topic, getting buzzed and half-awake, burning through cigarette after cigarette. They would rave madly, Paul’s eyes wild, his cheeks pink. He wasn’t as immaculate as he always presented himself, coughing and wheezing as he laughed. He didn’t need to be as poised as he always was when it was only John’s eyes on him. John still found him lovely. Paul would make a bloody fool of himself, singing terribly and doing his stupid shit, stupid hand movements, even stupider than the way he presented during broadcast interviews. It was their process, and they had their music to show for it.

Now it was so clinical, Paul keeping good distance, looking at him without the warmth he used to. They still had their process, and their heads put together made the music work. But it was at an arm’s length. John knew this.

John’s hand was gripping the magazine, making the paper crumple. He relaxed his hold, smoothing it out. What a lovely face. John stood up, sitting back on the edge of Paul’s bed. Perhaps he should reignite his cigarette. It was still there, balanced on the ashtray.

John began to trace the portrait with his finger, over the curve of Paul’s cheek, his arched eyebrow, Paul’s parted lips. John had touched the real thing, the warmth and softness of Paul’s skin, the graze of his stubble. The girls who had bought the magazine could only dream of it. The photo was about the right size too, those magazine execs knew what they were doing. Those girls could kiss the cover, and pretend it was the real thing.

John felt prideful. Those girls could dream of Paul, cry over him at night, put photos up on their walls, and daydream of what a gentleman he’d be, but John was the one who’d gotten to fuck him. John had touched him, delved into his gorgeous mouth. Barely a fraction of those girls would have the honor. Furthermore, they were likely young and whimsical. 

Paul wouldn’t sweep them off their feet, see something in them that made them different from all the others. Such a naive thought. Paul simply wasn’t looking for that, not from them anyway, an immature little girl who believed they loved someone they’d never met. These girls weren’t as unique, or special as they might think. Even if they were pretty, or sweet, Paul had hundreds of others who wanted him just as much so. If they were lucky enough for Paul to set his eyes on them, they’d likely come out of it heartbroken. Paul only wanted one thing after all.

Yes. No girl would know Paul the way he did. They loved Paul, they thought they did, but what they “loved” was nothing but a fantasy. They didn’t know his flaws. They might not want him as much if they did. They loved Paul’s face, and the idea of him built up in their heads. 

John knew every little flaw and imperfection, but adored him despite it. He’d seen Paul at his worst, he’d seen Paul filthy, and drunken, and sick. He’d seen the crueler things Paul had done, fueled by the uglier sides of him, his lustfulness, his self-interest, Paul’s occasional slip of empathy. He was an egotist, now intensifying as their fame grew. It was inevitable. It was unstop, the papers, the women, constant praise. They’d feed him, again and again, raving over his beauty. He was beautiful, an angel face, perfect in its androgyny. It went to his head, and he grew more and more egocentric. Paul felt entitled to things, the women. They should be so lucky he’d even given them a passing glance, so they should be grateful.

A year back, they were popular, but not as explosive as now, press scrutinizing their every move. Though their popularity was increasing, they kept their commitments to smaller venues that had booked them. They were playing at this smaller town in Cheshire, and after the show they’d gone down to the bar, enjoying themselves with the local girls.

There was a girl there however, that seemed dead set on Paul. This girl...calling her an eyesore would be putting it nicely. She’d prettied herself up for the club, but she might as well should’ve not bothered. She had this annoying giggle, and a face that looked like it had been hit by a shovel.

She followed Paul around like a little dog the entire night despite his many attempts to turn her down. She tried hugging his arm, clinging to him despite Paul’s obvious discomfort. Always the people pleaser, Paul was struggling to break his polite demeanor. She kept invading his space, speaking to him in a much too excited shrill voice. Paul couldn’t even go after other women with her sticking to him like a done-up parasite.

John would’ve told her off, but after a bit, and a few drinks in Paul’s system, he didn’t need to. She’d finally made Paul snap. Paul threw her off of him, and began slinging insult after insult at the poor girl. He tore into her, calling her disgusting, and a pig. He told her no man would look twice at a repulsive skank like her, much less someone like him.

Paul’s voice was louder from the alcohol, ranting and raving with pure hatred. People were staring. He said she’d be lucky to be used as a cheap fuck. Paul’s voice began to get incredulous with cruel amusement at the idea of her even pursuing him, thinking it would work. He began to laugh at her. 

_ You think I’d ever go for you?  _ He had said.  _ Not even if I was blackout drunk, ya cheap slag. Do you see yerself?  _ Paul had erupted in more cruel laughter.  _ I wouldn’t fuck ya with somebody else’s dick! Yer a fuckin’ joke, y’know! Go get your dusty cunt stuffed somewhere else, I’m not gonna fuckin’ do’it! _

The poor thing had left crying, but she had it coming in his opinion. 

Otherwise, Paul was polite. His main vice was lust, always good for it, regardless if he had a girl of his own. If any of his girls so much as glanced at another man though… Paul would have a few choice words to say to them. He’d never laid hands on a woman however, not to John’s knowledge at least. Paul would rant and rave, force them to bend to his will. He wanted to have control over them, even if he wasn’t around.

John lowered himself to lay on his side, still gazing at the photo, the shirt still bunched in his hand. The sweet lazy look Paul was giving the photographer...Paul didn’t look at him like this anymore, always some guard in his gaze. In the photo, he looked relaxed. Paul had always taken well to being photographed.

John brought the shirt to his face again. Such an intoxicating scent. He did feel a bit like a bird like this, the shirt in his fist, looking at this damned magazine. John narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t a bird, something for Paul to fuck then toss away, foolish enough to believe any word of these fucking articles.  _ He  _ was the one who was fucking Paul, and John knew better than to toss a thing like him away.

John undid his fly. He couldn’t have him, but he could still toss off to Paul. The photo wouldn’t have a thing to say about it.

The simple headshot gave John as much gratification as any centerfold would. Christ, Paul’s face in all it’s familiarity and beauty was as good of a rush as any. The pleasant buzz in his abdomen developed as expected, touching himself to that image.

Heat built up in his face. His sweet little Paul, with his pretty mouth and soft pale cheeks. It may not match what was on the inside, but that didn’t mean John was immune to it. Nobody should’ve given Paul that power, yet it was too late now, wasn’t it? That fucking angelface. Paul should’ve never been given a face like that.

John held back a groan. Suppose he didn’t need to, but you never knew who could be listening in. John would know by the sound of the front door opening if anyone had arrived back in the suite. John didn’t like listening to his own voice anyways, rough and masculine. He was trying to recall Paul’s sounds, still tempting him in his memory. The sweetest, deepest, most melodic voice. John glared harder at the photo. Paul’s very sounds drove him mad, something as simple as his speaking voice. It was beyond impossible even getting through the day with it playing upon his ears. He wanted Paul’s mouth right against them, whispering things, sweet things, sinful things.

Despite that fucking mug of his, Paul’s foul mouth came out hard when spurred on by sex. Paul would shout and cry out those filthy vulgarities, unable to hold back, overwhelmed by the pleasure bottling up inside of him. Paul could use his voice just as perfectly as in their music, his vocal rage impeccable. He conveyed his need clearer and more gut-wrenchingly than any other man could because of it. 

John could be fucking his own broad in his own bed, and Paul would be the one driving him mad from across the dark room. Those strangled cries, tight in his throat, wheezing pants. Even his pants and breaths were distinctive to him. There was just something...something in Paul’s voice he couldn’t understand. It drove him mad. 

Hearing his sounds gave a deep pulling in his gut, making John’s thoughts cut out. He wanted Paul louder and more desperate, but no matter how hard he fucked his broad, it wouldn’t make Paul’s pleasure more intense. His efforts weren’t going toward Paul’s benefit, Paul wasn’t crying out for him.

Paul could be energized by sex, but John wanted to go further than that. He wanted to break Paul from the pleasure, come undone by his hand. He wanted Paul to beg in an undignified voice, make hideous sounds, too far gone to maintain his poise. 

It wouldn’t work with the way it was now. If Paul was miserable by the whole affair, straining himself to hold still, full of dread. Whenever they had sex, while John felt the weight of the universe, finally feeling complete, Paul was trying his hardest to pretend he wasn’t there, block out every bit of it. Paul would hold back all the sounds he could, stiffen up and shut his eyes tight. 

That wasn’t pleasure. John could touch him exactly where he knew Paul liked it, coax out all the orgasms he wanted out of him, but Paul would never  _ enjoy  _ it. The bottom line was that Paul didn’t  _ want  _ it. Any of it. He was repulsed by his friend’s hands on him, touching him in these places. John didn’t want to come to terms with it, but he knew Paul hated every second they were connected. It wasn’t fair.

Oh Paul...how he adored Paul…

John’s mouth was slack. His eyes kept tracing every inch of that lovely portrait, every line and curve. Paul wouldn’t react in the pleasure he wanted if Paul hadn’t wanted it in the first place. John knew he wouldn’t.

Still, he could imagine. John could picture in his imagination what Paul would look like under him, crying out for him. Maybe he was a dreamer.

John let the fantasy overtake him. Another hectic day of their life, one thing after another, Paul alongside him throughout. He’d meet Paul’s eyes by chance, and they’d share a look only the two of them could recognize. It would all be under the radar, but the two of them would know the intent. Walking close to Paul like he used to, shoulders brushing against each other, intimacy coming natural.

With no eyes on them, he could stroke a hand down Paul’s back, and Paul would look up at him, a suggestive look, intoxicating through his dark eyelashes. Paul could say things low into his ear, things nobody else would overhear, things Paul would do to him. Paul’s deep voice and dirty mind making shivers run down his spine as if he were one of Paul’s birds.

Finally once the day was done, they’d be alone. The doors would close behind them, and he’d have Paul to himself, no longer needing to share him with the press, the women, eyes on his partner, eyes were always on Paul, but only he could have him.

Paul’s body would press to his, needing him. Paul was a centimeter taller, but he would lift his heels as if he were a bird. Paul as he’d always known him, buzzing with excitement, blown pupils, and his clear scent of energy. 

He wondered if Paul would take the lead in this scenario, or he’d want John to take good care of him. It was tricky, as he could see it going either way. The times they’d been together before wasn’t a good indicator. As much as John loved to pleasure him as Paul rest his lovely body, it wasn’t as if he was receptive. Paul would freeze up, not giving anything that wasn’t taken from him.

With the women though, Paul would pursue the ones he liked. He’d use his height to his advantage, touch their faces, quite the charmer he was. It had become much easier to seal the deal once they’d blown up in popularity though. What girl would deny him? Rock star and sought after heartthrob, National darling Beatle Paul McCartney. Paul could do nothing at all and they’d come to him. John had a suspicion he enjoyed the chase though. Paul liked to feel like a man.

John gave a laugh as he stroked off to the magazine. Compensating for anything, Macca?

However, when it came down to what happened when he got those girls alone, it could go either way. Then, all bets were off, Paul had succeeded, and there was no standard he needed to adhere to. As John had suspicion of, Paul tended to attract women who wanted to “take care of him.”. They saw his gentle face, and wanted to see it come undone, much like John did. 

It was unfortunate, as when looking for a girl to keep around, Paul liked the submissive ones that did what he said. Yet, for a one-night lay, Paul didn’t mind laying back and taking what they had to give. He got a kick out of it, the bastard, getting his ego stroked (among other things), his body being worshiped like that. John felt a bit resentful, that was exactly what he was willing to give him.

Paul liked fucking broads into the mattress just as much as he liked them having their way with him. It was ironic, considering Paul’s constant desire for control. Suppose having a break from it gave him some relief.

John wondered what it would be like to tie Paul up, making him defenseless to the pleasure, make him cry out in overstimulation, unable to avoid it. He wanted to make Paul feel the overwhelming intensity John felt everyday, having to be around him. He could try and see how many times in a row he could make Paul cum, until he couldn’t bring himself to get erect again. It would be a good meal, that’s for sure.

For obvious reasons, John hadn’t tried that...tying Paul up. Paul was tense enough using his own strength to keep from moving, he was afraid how he’d react if he lost the choice. 

John was still shaken from the final time he’d sedated Paul. He’d bound Paul’s hands, but only so Paul wouldn’t swing at him out of instinct. He wanted to see Paul happy whilst John fucked him, a foolish sentimentality. In hindsight John saw how pathetic he was being. The moment Paul began to panic in his haze, the moment Paul realized his hands were bound, the terror on his face. John still felt horrible for it. 

Even though Paul felt no other choice than to let John have him, at least Paul had the freedom of movement. John wouldn’t restrain him only if Paul truly felt comfortable to. He doubted Paul would at this point.

He narrowed his eyes at the photo. Paul. Fucking Paul, making him go through all of this. All Paul had to do was rest his pretty body and enjoy the pleasure. All John had ever wanted was to give him that.

He wondered how it would even begin in a world where Paul craved him back. All of this had begun because John had drugged him, and Paul had put up that fucking camera. By this point, John knew it wasn’t right to do, but he had no other choice. 

He wanted to satisfy the madness as kindly as he could. If he didn’t, John was afraid he would lunge at Paul, having lost his mind, taking what was eating at him much less gently. That’s the whole reason he did it in the first place. It was because he  _ cared for  _ Paul!

If it had been another way...where Paul would reciprocate...would John have had to pursue him? Maybe it would happen gradually, the lines becoming blurrier until John was fucking him into the mattress.

John only took Paul’s mouth the times Paul resigned to him, along with the rest of the things he did. Maybe it would be different. John enjoyed kissing him, those delicate lips. It was like kissing a bird, but clearly wasn’t. It was Paul. Even when his eyes were closed, the firmness of the lips, the stubble, the scent, it wasn’t a bird. John knew whose mouth was on his, and that alone gave him a rush unmatched by any other.

John would put his mouth on girls, so many girls, different lips, full and thin, different noses against his and different scents. There was no difference to John. When he was a broad, it was a broad he was kissing. He didn’t know their names, he didn’t know anything deeper about them. They all blended together. A pretty girl was a pretty girl, another pretty girl. John didn’t care for them on an individual level. He’d fuck them, then there’d be another. It wasn’t that way with Paul. When John felt him, he knew who it was. Paul was his constant companion, and John had adoration for him broader than the everyday “pretty girls.”

It made John’s chest light in a soft way, imagining waking up to those lips on him first thing in the morning. Maybe it was a soft concept, but it was only in John’s head. Nobody would know. 

John realized as his mind wandered, his eyes had been fixated on those same lips on the black and white photo. John loved the way Paul would part his mouth, those little imperfect teeth between them. John had memorized those imperfections, completely as they should be according to him. John would never forgive him if Paul got them “fixed” somehow. There was nothing to fix. John wanted to push his fingers in, press them into Paul’s moist tongue, and...do what exactly?

By god, the things he would do to fuck that throat. John would, but he was afraid Paul would bite him if he tried. The thought made him cringe.

God. Paul.

John could kneel in front of him, plug Paul’s nose, and force Paul’s head down. That wouldn’t work. John could picture the humiliation and shame that would overcome his friend. Paul was prideful, and would be mortified at being forced to take another man in his throat, the implication of it. (John would’ve been disgusted by it too a few years back, but by god did his mouth water, taking Paul in his mouth. It was absolutely delicious). Paul would choke and gag at him, tearing up at the thing invading his mouth, unable to distance himself from the sensation. John wouldn’t get any gratification from that, Paul’s misery and disgust at having him. Paul’s face would be pink, his eyebrows drawn in shame.

If John held Paul’s lovely head firmly in place, making him swallow every drop, John would have his brief satisfaction, then the pleasure would ebb away. The moment he relaxed his grip, Paul would scramble away from him, face clammy and pale. Paul would be completely repulsed and nauseated, trying to regain his breath, all the while dry heaving, coughing, sitting slumped over, braced on his arms, tears pricking at his eyes. Paul would be desperate to get what John had made him swallow  _ out,  _ unable to get the taste out of his mouth, devolving into panic. John didn’t want to see that, disgust and humiliation from Paul at what he’d been forced to do.

But Paul wasn’t only miserable. He could be furious, frustrated and indignant by all of it, at what John had resorted to making him do. Paul could very well bite down, hard, at the audacity of him. John could threaten him with violence. 

If Paul ended up biting down, he knew how he could get. John could pull him harshly off his wronged knob by his long bangs. He could beat Paul to a bloody pulp, beat him down until Paul’s breaths became frantic and tears streaked his cheeks. John could hurt him and bruise him until any light in Paul’s eyes were good and faded. John knew how he could get upon seeing red, not a rational thought in his head until the source of his frustration lay shivering and broken in front of him as John slowly realized what he’d done, regaining feeling in his sore hands.

John had seen that before, and it might’ve been the worst thing he had to experience. Oh, Paul…

Sadness came over him. He didn’t want to do that, not to Paul, never again. He didn’t want to beat Paul into submission. He wanted Paul, the real Paul, the way he always was, flaws and all. He truly wanted Paul as his equal, his partner. Him and Paul, a winning combination, best mates.

But even as a fantasy, the idea of Paul  _ wanting  _ to do it, craving to take him in his mouth the same as John did him.

The surroundings around the magazine blurred. John’s entire focus was on that delicious face. He imagined Paul’s looking up lustily at him through long dark eyelashes. Paul’s lovely pink tongue running over his teeth, his mouth watering at the anticipation. Paul’s lips, a small teasingly light kiss at the very tip of him. John’s body physically shivered in pleasure at the mental picture. That’s how Paul was, such a cocky prick, with the girls too. He knew how much people wanted him, so he enjoyed toying with them for his own amusement. 

Paul would start slow, but once he’d sufficiently made John’s heart race in excitement, he’d part his beautiful mouth, and move his head down. John would tug at Paul’s hair, make Paul shiver and moan around his length. Paul’s mouth would be as soft and delicious as he knew it was. John knew what it felt like, memorized every inch with his tongue. Paul’s lovely arched back, Paul’s soft hair between his fingers. Paul would bring him to the breaking point, then he’d eagerly swallow every bit of his release, just as John did with him.

After it was over, Paul would raise his head, dizzy and amorous. John would be mesmerized, more than mad with passion. John would bend down, pull Paul up to a seat, kiss him with everything he had, suffocating himself in the process. Paul’s hands would be grabbing at his back, pulling John’s face closer, lustfully as he knew Paul could be.

Paul might not crave him, but Paul’s entire being was doused with, preoccupied with sex. Paul loved every bit of it, always good for it. You couldn’t tell from his demeanor and face, that he was even capable of it. He was pegged as the innocent one, much to Paul’s combined amusement and indignation. 

Paul loved nothing more than chasing his orgasms, always wanting it. Fucking bunny-rabbit he was, fucking and sucking, humping into his own hands in frustration if he couldn’t get it. It was madness. John could hardly believe how he could stand to hear it, not flip Paul over, swiftly enter him, fuck Paul to the orgasm he seemed to so desperately want before Paul’s mind even caught up.

Paul wasn’t putting on a show for him, but the quarters were tight in the early days, and they didn’t always have the money for a whore, having struck out with the girls before they were famous enough for that to not be an issue. It was inevitable to have to knock one out whilst not completely alone.

Hell, fucking Paul. Paul could beat off in a reclining position, or lying on his back, but Paul’s favorite method seemed to be lying on his stomach, humping into his hands, fucking into them as if it were a cunt. 

Paul would have the covers over himself, but John could tell what he was doing, Paul’s pants and muffled groans. Paul’s little jerky thrusts, unable to hold back his primal instinct to  _ thrust.  _

_ Fuck her. Finish inside her. Cum, Paul. Cum. _

It wasn’t out of the question, at this point they were beyond being shy around each other. They beat off with groups just for laffs! Hah! Paul wasn’t doing this to seduce him, drive John mad. 

Fucking Paul. He would fuck anything with two legs and a cunt. He’d fuck his own clasped hands, but he couldn’t stand it if John was the one giving him pleasure? If John clasped his hands, blindfolded Paul, and guided those lovely hips to thrust, how would Paul even tell the difference? When Paul was drugged, his little hips would shift, the instinct. Paul’s instinct was to chase the pleasure. Paul would chase the sensation and gasp, wherever his mind was, drifting away. 

John believed that was the genuine Paul, not the frigid thing that dreaded the pleasure, all because of the implication. Paul was always good for it. Paul  _ was  _ a whore. John knew he was.

John pressed the bunched up shirt to his face, not wanting to breathe in anything but Paul’s scent. His breaths were getting shorter, the pleasure throughout him. If he focused enough, he could pretend Paul was underneath him, rather than a photo, that pretty face in full technicolor. 

Paul’s scent from the shirt was strong, but it wasn’t the distinct scent of his arousal. What a  _ good  _ scent that was. John wanted to bottle up the aroma of Paul’s lust and breathe it in.

John’s eyes glazed over. He thought about Paul’s hips thrusting under those covers, his sweet stifled groans. John could hear him, but Paul was in his own world. John wondered if he would even notice if John walked closer, getting a closer look. If he brought his face closer, maybe he could catch a whiff of the scent being blocked by the duvet. Lucky Paul...John could imagine it was all he could breathe in under there, drunk off the scent of his own arousal. John envied him.

Maybe he could lightly place his hand over the duvet, a gentle touch where Paul’s ass was, moving as he gave his restrained thrusts, attempting to be discreet out of courtesy. John could help him with his thrusts, pushing down if only slightly. He wondered if Paul would even notice, too far gone by this point.

John remembered how Paul came. God how he loved to watch it, he’d always been mesmerized. Paul’s hips would get jerkily, his sounds a bit less stifled, though still cut off. Paul’s thrusts would become more drawn out, hips shuddering as he came. There was an elusiveness to it, the knowledge of what Paul was doing, though completely blind to it. Such a tease, even if it wasn’t even Paul’s intention.

John knew what he wanted to do. The moment Paul was on the brink of orgasm, he wanted to walk over to him, then pull the covers back without so much as a warning, promptly rolling him over. Paul’s eyes would snap to him bewildered and taken aback, his skin flushed and damp, the cold air suddenly hitting him. He hadn’t been  _ hiding  _ it, but he’d be a bit embarrassed at being confronted. 

But that would only last a split second. The moment John chose to pull the covers back, It would be when Paul was on the brink of releasing, too late for Paul to stop it. John would watch transfixed, salivating as Paul came. Paul’s head would go blank, taken out of the moment, his release now the most important thing on his mind. He’d cry out, the fluid vacating his swollen member. 

John would keep him still, Paul wouldn’t have the brainpower and strength to pull away, but just so he wouldn’t unconsciously turn away, hide himself from John’s gaze. Paul’s legs would tremble, those delicious thighs shivering, his stomach would tighten and his features would be distorted with sensation.

Wordlessly, once Paul was buzzing with the post-orgasmic bliss, before his mind could even catch up, John would lick the fluid off Paul’s body, the delicious taste of the culmination of Paul’s arousal.

Hell. Christ, John was withdrawn. Look at what he’d resorted to for god’s sake, Paul’s damp shirt bunched in his hand, up to his face, gazing blurrily down at a black and white photo.

He’d take anything from Paul at this point. Paul could whack off, then turn to John as he finished, and John would open his mouth wide, hoping for the slightest taste as the hot spurts landed on his face. He didn’t care if Paul called him pathetic, laugh at his desperation, hurl insults. 

John deserved it. He  _ was _ a fool for the damn bastard. If Paul could just lay there, John could rut against his foot to get his satisfaction. Christ, those feet…John would be happy with Paul stepping on him, on his face as if he were the dirt Paul walked on. He didn’t care if Paul looked down at him with disgust and contempt, as if he were that girl he was so fed up with back in Cheshire. He’d take that any day over Paul ignoring him, not letting him have even the smallest shred of satisfaction.

John would be glad dying by Paul’s hand, he was that far gone.

John came on the photo, his release landing on the paper, disturbing the flatness of it. It was satisfying, vindicating him, it landing on Paul’s pretty, completely oblivious face. He hadn’t cum on Paul’s face since that very first night, now six months ago. It was thrilling, the implication of it, the power over him, defiling him.

John heaved in breaths, looking manically down at the photo of his dear friend. Fucking Paul. Fucking Paul and his pretty face. Any more of this, and John would go mad. He’d already gone mad. Completely mad for this prick, his fucking mate.

It buzzed underneath his fingernails, crawling over his back. He needed to fuck Paul. He needed to fuck Paul everyday of his life. He’d just came, but that didn’t make it go away. This was beyond temporary infatuation, this tugged at the very depths of his being. John knew this was something he had to do, as important as breathing and eating. John was made to fuck him, and he knew in his soul Paul was made for him to fuck. That’s all that made sense to him. They were the ideal pair, fitting together perfectly, in all aspects of life. If that wasn’t what this was, why was it so unbearable being without it? 

Paul was the irrational one, screwing up the way nature intended them to be. Paul was denying him his God-given right.

John knew he couldn’t force Paul to fuck him anymore. It was wrong. This whole time he was doing the exact thing he’d wanted to avoid, inflicting misery onto his friend. He cared for Paul. He truly did. He lusted after him, but Paul was his friend first and foremost. He finally realized how fucked up he was being after that one night, how far he had gone. Never again.

But he needed Paul. He needed him so badly it was driving him mad.

Paul needed to  _ want _ to fuck him. That was the only way. 

...but how?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost wrote John sniffing a shoe like in that gif. Thank god I didn’t but John totally would. 
> 
> Btw, keep in mind the narration isn’t my own thoughts/beliefs


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy this is a long one, boys.

It was two days after that night with the magazine.

John and his group had been invited to dinner, which they headed to after their show. They had a moment to freshen up, then they were off.

They often got invitations like this, these lavish dinners by these rich folks. Some were better than others. Suppose they were a luxury now, for them to show off, similar to their rare oriental rug, or taxidermized tigers.  _ Look what we got! The coveted Beatles. _

Still, it was an experience for sure, interacting with all sorts of people. John had met so many people, loads of people he would’ve never had the chance to if he hadn’t become a star. The parties they were invited to ranged from wild ragers thrown by younger crowds, to stuffy suit and tie affairs. They were always a hoot.

At this dinner, it was a sit down, along this long table, expensive silverware, and a great deal of utensils. It would be a good meal, that was for certain, cooked by personal chefs. 

John sometimes felt a small bit of distaste. How was it that so many people went hungry, whilst these high society types dined on their finest cuts, hidden away in their extravagant homes? Why couldn’t wealth simply be distributed evenly, no possessions, everyone living peacefully together? He could imagine. The wealthy being overthrown, justice for the working class.

John cut at the steak he was given. It was a perfect medium rare. He glanced over the knife he was using. It must be silver. It hit him that  _ he _ was in this house, eating this food, using these utensils. John was invited here. He might’ve grown up working class, but he’d quickly surpassed that as of late. John himself could afford an extravagant home, expensive China, and a personal chef.

These people who had invited them wouldn’t have given them a passing glance just two years back. John would’ve been beneath them, the dirt they walked on. Perhaps they still saw him that way, prettied up and cleaned, but still unable to truly be a part of high society. It didn’t matter how much money you had, you’d always be where you’d come from. Who knew how long their group would last. They were a spectacle, them, working class boys who’d made the big time.

John grew bitter at the thought. It reminded him of that time somebody had cut a chunk off Ringo’s hair off, just for the kicks. Not people, they were celebrities! Strange little things too, with long hair and a funny way of speaking. 

John cut at his meat, resentment building as the ruling classes laughed their chortly larfs.

The bitter taste in John’s mouth faded as his eyes drifted to Paul beside him. He couldn’t maintain it while looking at his friend’s gentle features. Paul was better at him at coming off as friendly. His face must help, but also his cheeriness. Paul liked to be liked, even though deep down he was quite similar to John. Maybe that’s how they got on so well.

Paul had a lovely profile. He was always immaculate, but even more so when dressed for these sorts of events. Not a hair was out of place, the color of deep chocolate, the softness evident from sight alone. Paul’s dress shirt was starched and without a single imperfection, his dark suit tailored perfectly to his body, following his subtle curves.

John didn’t stare too long, or Paul (among others) would notice. John had seen photos taken of their group, people always photographing them, where his eyes had unconsciously drifted to Paul. It happened regularly, unthinkingly, looking over his friend. They weren’t incriminating, but John could recognize the expressions on his own face. That was simply the way he looked at Paul.

John wasn’t the only one either. The lady of the house, perhaps a bit older than them, was looking. Maybe inviting them had been her idea. 

But what irritated John further was one of the other guests. He was sitting across the table, slightly to the right. He was being awfully...friendly...towards Paul. 

The man’s attention was on him, including him in conversation, trying to get a laugh out of him. Paul was receptive too, always the friendly sort. If people were amiable with him, he returned it.

At times, Paul could notice when people had their sights on him, they often did, he noticed, and figured out a way to use it to his advantage. But just as often, it went over his head. 

When Paul looked away, the man’s expression shifted. John knew that look well.

The man met John’s gaze, noticing him staring. He sneered at him upon seeing the irritation on John’s face. John bristled at that, but suppose there wasn’t much to be done about it.

Paul was eating his own meal, drinking his wine throughout idle conversation. He had no reason to be suspicious of it. He was hyper vigilant now, watching what he drank when alone with John, or even alone with the group. John couldn’t blame him for that. Paul wasn’t a careless sort.

John had made the promise with complete candor, that he wouldn’t force himself on Paul, and he held himself to that. He’d never again sedate him, he’d promised that about a month ago even. John realized, that terrible terrible night, he’d seen how wrong it all was. He cared for Paul, he adored Paul. John had been so blinded by lust, and he’d always feel guilty for that. It all culminated in that one terrible night.

He wanted Paul to feel safe with him, not be on edge that at any moment, John would force himself on him, take him. John didn’t want that. He knew he couldn’t go back to that.

But he couldn’t go on without having Paul. It was torture. It wasn’t sustainable. John couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t want to break, take Paul against the studio floor the moment he finally snapped.

The sedative was a temporary solution, and so were the threats. John was acting out of emotion, not out of logic, desperate to keep having Paul at any cost. He was a man possessed.

The natural solution was for Paul to  _ want  _ him, for Paul to  _ ask  _ for it. The solution was simple.

It was easy for John to get his hands on things. All sorts of things. He was a celebrity, and he went to all sorts of clubs. It was easy to get things there, especially the upscale places. John was no stranger to drugs, even before their popularity exploded. His only reservation about searching for what he needed, was making sure it wouldn’t have a negative effect on Paul. It was Paul, his mate, not some broad he was trying to roofie. 

Not that John would ever do that. He had no reason to drug some poor woman. He already had women swarming around him at any given moment. He could take his pick of the prettiest ones that came up to him.

When it came to Paul, he hated to do it, but this was the only way he could have him. John couldn’t go on not having him.

And so, John had acquired an aphrodisiac. It would take about two hours to kick in, enough time for the dinner to end, and to get back to their suite. It was rather convenient, as Paul guarded his drinks, if he had any at all once returning to the hotel. Paul would be none the wiser, until he started feeling the affects of course.

It wasn’t bad...to do this to Paul. Paul would be awake, he would keep his memories, something John knew was one of his main grievances. True to his word, he would not force himself on Paul. If Paul still denied him...John would listen. The aphrodisiac was merely a variable, but the choice in the end was Paul’s. He wasn’t sedated, unable to do a thing but lie there as John had his way with him. John wouldn’t do a single thing Paul didn’t ask, and Paul would have the final say.

Paul had finished his plate, and so had the rest of them. They began to exchange parting words to the dinner guests, thanking the hosts. The conversation was more or less entertaining, though John zoned out a bit during the discussion on foreign affairs, trade, stocks and that rubbish. John was a rock n roll musician for Christ’s sake.

They took their coats, and a car took them back to the hotel. As soon as they walked into their suite, they began shooting the shit with each other in a way they’d been holding back all night, poking fun at the stuffy topics that came up. As a group, it was like things were the way they used to be, not having to mince words around each other, all of them the best of mates. 

They began changing out of their fancy black-tie suits, putting on things better for a nighttime outing. It was late, but not so late that the fun would be over.

Paul had undone his bowtie, as well as the buttons of his suit jacket. He took a seat in one of the armchairs, a hand to his forehead as he followed the conversation, offering his own quips. The others were already rooting through their suitcases, finding less dressy attire. Paul’s cheeks were a touch pink.

“Goin’ out tonight, Paul?” George said. 

Paul ran a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs back. Heat seemed to accumulate there. He blew out a breath.

“I dunno, I…” Paul said. “...any of you feelin’ a bit hot?” 

There was a unanimous response of shrugs and hums of disagreement.

“Maybe you ought to lie down.” George said.

“If yer feelin’ any better, ya can always come out later n’ meet up with us.”   
  
“Hmm.” Paul huffed.

Paul rose from his chair, and paced to the coat rack, hanging his suitcoat there.

Paul walked past the group of them, a slightly ticked expression.

“Hope m’not coming down with somethin’.” He said, mumbling a bit in frustration. “Would be a real drag to miss our last few shows.”

Paul had never enjoyed being sick. He could go mad, not getting anything done.

They all said their various goodbyes as Paul put up a hand of farewell, disappearing into his room.

The rest of them finished changing, something simpler, collared shirts, blazers, less dressy trousers, either changing into loafers or keeping their Chelsea boots on. The three of them left the suite, heading to the elevator.

Halfway down the corridor, John abruptly stopped in his tracks, faking an expression of surprise. 

“Ey?” George said. His two friends stopped walking as well, turning to look at him.

“What’s up?

John smiled at them bewildered, slapping a hand to his forehead. 

“Can’ believe I forgot…” John murmured. He looked at his friends apologetically. “I gotta talk to Paul real quick. You guys ought to go on without me.”

“Hm? He’s feeling ill though, int’ he? S’it best to disturb ‘him?”

John laughed at that.

“Paul’s a big lad. He can handle a quick word.” He said. “I’ll be out later, yeah? See ya at the club.”

George brought a friendly hand down on his shoulder. They gave their parting words, then they were off. John walked the opposite direction, key in hand, back to their suite.

John closed the door behind him, then made to Paul and his room.

He slowly opened the door.

Paul was laying on the bed, on his back, albeit a bit tense. The lamp was still on. Paul had removed his shoes, but couldn’t be bothered to remove anything else, save a couple buttons undone on his dress shirt. 

As John entered the room, Paul’s head shot up. His cheeks were flushed, his skin damp with sweat.

John smiled at him, giving a wave. 

Paul lifted to his elbows, his face confused. It seemed that he was a touch dizzy as well.

“How are ya feeling, Paul?” John said, voice saccharine sweet.

John watched as Paul’s face morphed from confusion, to focus, until a furious expression developed across his features, completely enraged the second his mind put two and two together. His ability to convey such anger was impressive considering his completely flushed face and heavy breathing. Paul drew a deep breath.

“What did you give me?” Paul strained, his voice dangerous and low in his throat. Paul had a deep voice, and could sound very intimidating if he wanted to. However, there was always a sweetness to it, even when Paul wanted to convey the exact opposite. Even with his vocal abilities, it was something Paul could never rid himself of.

Paul’s voice rose, getting increasingly hysterical at a lack of response, his condition getting worse.

“What’d ya fucking give me?!”

John began to laugh. Fucking laugh. It wasn’t even a malicious one, as if John was endeared by Paul’s whole predicament. It only made Paul want to hit him, beat his face in.

But...he couldn’t. It had taken over his body. 

Paul’s body was burning up. He felt so hot, burning just under his skin, relief impossible. His head felt light, his cheeks hot. It overtook him like a vice. Paul’s skin crawled with it. 

With...arousal.

Paul was hard, painfully hard, straining against his dress trousers. It was such a sophisticated outfit too, Paul felt that he was defiling it, sweating through the thin delicate material of his dress shirt. 

His head was light, and the anger wasn’t doing a good job at sticking. Christ, all he had room to think about was his arousal. Paul wanted to touch himself, John be damned. But that fucker...he was watching, getting sick pleasure from the state Paul was in.

Paul drew more labored breaths as his head grew hotter, a desperate attempt to quell the heat raging inside him. Paul sat up on the edge of the bed, wringing his hands. His forehead felt clammy, his whole body felt hot and clammy. His body was burning hot.

“Need some help, Paul?”

Paul’s eyes shot open at that coarse voice, sweat beading at his voice. He shot upright.

John had walked up in front of him looking down at Paul. He was smiling at him fucking playfully, amused from Paul’s condition. Paul felt no humor whatsoever. He was dying. 

John made a move to reach out to him.

“No! No!” Paul shouted erratically, sticking his arms out in defense. “ _ You  _ stay the  _ fuck _ away from me! Back the fuck off!”

Fortunately for him, John actually fucking listened for once, but still smiled that stupid condescending smile at him. John was smiling, but his eyes were searching Paul’s features, trying to see how much the drug was affecting him.

Paul let out a noise of frustration, but more due to the arousal than his hopeless predicament. 

Fucking John, Fucking John. He’d built up Paul’s trust again. Despite all odds, Paul was beginning to relax. Paul was a fucking idiot.

He was so happy for things to return to normal. Paul thought his hell was over. He damn well wanted it to be. His  _ friend  _ had realized what he’d been doing, John had realized how horrible he’d been, the drunken night being the wake-up call. Paul had thought John had finally gotten over the horrible mental break he must be going through, no matter how late it came.

Maybe Paul shouldn’t have been that quick to forgive him, but what else could he do? All he’d been wanting this entire ordeal was to have his friend back. Paul thought that had finally happened! He was so ready to accept John back. He was Paul’s songwriting partner, bandmate. He couldn’t continue with their music without him. Having the old John back would be the best thing to happen to him. They could go back to the way things used to be! Some version of it anyhow. These past five weeks had been great! Paul had slowly begun to feel like himself again! 

Paul balled his hands up, hitting himself on the thighs out of exasperation. He couldn’t even think!

God, he needed...he needed to touch himself. He’d never felt this worked up before, never this desperate. Paul couldn’t even think. He was painfully hard, every atom of his being screaming at Paul to touch it, free it from the constraints of his trousers. 

Fucking John. He didn’t fucking care. Paul scooted back on the bed towards the headboard. He fumbled with his trouser buttons, not an ounce of patience for it. Paul wrapped his hand around his throbber and groaned loud as the relief shot through him like an electric shock.

Paul couldn’t hold back another second. Before he processed it, his hand was moving up and down roughly and quickly. Paul cried out again. Nothing felt this good. Nothing. His dick felt like it was melting off, every touch an extreme relief, but torture again as his hand slid up and down, unable to cover the entirety of himself (as a cunt would).

The muscles in Paul’s hips were clenched in intensity. His whole head buzzed with relief, with pleasure. He wanted more. Everywhere. He couldn’t even see, all he could think about was his prick and the pleasure. He was doing a shoddy job holding back his voice. He couldn’t even think about it or care at the moment. It was like steam coming from a kettle. There was nowhere else for the energy to go.

“Good, Paul?”

Dammit. Fuck. Paul had nearly forgotten about him. He couldn’t stop his hand though. Stopping his hand would mean certain death. He gave a grumbly groan from the bottom of his throat, glaring daggers at John above his flushed cheeks. He was angry, so angry, but he could only think about his arousal. There was no room for anything else in his mind. He cried out, eyes squeezing shut.

John was hovering from the edge of the bed, watching Paul, salivating. Paul was giving him a fucking show. Paul couldn’t stop touching himself even if he wanted to. Fucking John, looking at him, enjoying the display. 

Paul couldn’t stand it. He was so hard it hurt. His quick hand was only giving him so much pleasure, up and down, and up and down, whacking himself desperately. It would be humiliating, but Paul was too far gone to care. John’s eyes boring into him was nothing compared to the arousal tearing apart every fibre of his being.

Paul’s skin was damp with condensation. His hand wasn’t quick enough. It was paradoxical, he wasn’t mentally strong enough to keep a consistent pace with his hand, but every slip up made it even worse. Paul kept getting impatient, his hips jerking harshly, roughly, unthinkingly into his tight fist. It kept throwing off his rhythm. Paul needed relief. All he could think of was relief. His vision blurred. He needed more, he needed more, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. Paul let out a strangled cry out of frustration. He felt like crying. It was too much.

“This is a nice look for you, Paul. Much better than the sedatives. In’t it? I know I prefer it.”

John’s voice was teasing, but also genuine. Paul tuned out the noise. He’d forgotten John was even there. He cried out obscenely. He didn’t care about pridefulness, or the show he was putting on for John. He couldn’t fucking think. His face was hot. His whole body was burning. He needed more. His hips began to shake erratically, trying to fuck into his fist, whacking himself off inconsistently, jerkily. He was burning, but it was nothing compared to his prick. He didn’t know what to do. His whole being was concentrated there, the only thing on his mind being release. Paul didn’t have the ability to hold back his voice, cries and sobs of frustration escaping him, him not caring how loud or unattractive they were.

Quite the erotic sight, John thought, how far gone he was. Paul’s knob was swollen, looking as it did when Paul was on the brink of orgasm, but he’d only just taken it out. The pink swelled head disappeared and reappeared quickly in the clench of Paul’s grip. It wasn’t “pretty” like this, but it was mouthwatering still. John could see the give of it, how Paul’s hand was able to squeeze the sensitized shaft. It reminded John of how it was to touch it himself, he knew what it felt like to be tossed off also.

He kept losing his rhythm upon any semblance of relief, jerking his hips and crying out, not getting anywhere. God, he could watch this for hours. If only he could record it...but a grainy home video camera wouldn’t do it justice. He absolutely loved seeing how Paul pleasured himself, his desperate yet such lovely movements. The moments of his hips were especially nice.  _ Yes Paul, thrust. You can get there, Macca. keep trying, baby. _ Desperation was exactly what he wanted to see from Paul, the immaculate thing pushed to this point of arousal. It was extremely satisfying.

Paul’s glare, the gaze on him, had stirred something inside of John, but just as good was Paul’s expression, mouth open and gasping for breath, blurry eyes and flushed cheeks. His hair was dampening with condensation, not to mention his skin. And the sounds, oh hell...

Paul didn’t even notice until his grip on his shaft began to slip, but John’s hands were tight around each of his wrists, detaching Paul’s hands from his desperate arousal.

Paul had the strength, but not the direction. He screamed, his face contorted in pain. John wasn’t hurting him, but Christ, he was so fucking hard it hurt. Paul tried to jerk his hands out of the grip, but he was too shaky, too lightheaded. He fucking...he fucking needed...

“Not so prudish now, are ya Paul?” John sneered.

Paul jerked his legs, trying to get some goddamned friction on his erection. His movements were illogical, but it was hot, much too hot. It hurt. 

Paul cried out. Trying to detach himself from John’s grip was an impossible task, Paul’s hands clenched into firsts. Even if he wasn’t drugged, John had the upper hand, hovering over him, tight grip on both wrists. Paul couldn’t kick him, or muster the direction to. All his hips could do if he could muster the strength was thrust up desperately, try to fuck against the open air. He was only acting out of instinct. Paul struggled frantically, but he couldn’t keep his mind on wrestling free. The fucking open air, fucking shit, his dick felt so fucking close to bursting. He needed...he needed...

John jerked his wrists, getting Paul’s attention. Paul’s prick hurt, his breaths were labored.

“Ya don’t have to suffer. Jus’ ask, and I’ll fuck ya until it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Paul wanted to hit him. He was so angry. He cried out again. Paul tried to knee him, but the movement of his hips only sent sensation straight to his prick. Paul couldn’t provide any strength. He cried out again and again, tossing his head side to side in useless desperation. His eyes darted around the room, panting and crying out. Hands, he needed hands. 

Paul groaned illegibly, trying to move his lips, trying to speak. He might be drooling, but he couldn’t even think of his pride right now.

“C’mon, Paul. Jus’ ask. M’not gonna force myself on ya, remember?” 

John grinned. Paul felt so fucking patronized. He was fucking helpless.

“Jus’ say the word Paul. Ya gotta want it, see?” John said mirthfully. “I would never do anything to ya against yer will. I want ya to be  _ happy,  _ Paul.”

Paul shut his eyes so tight that stars appeared. He cried out between labored breaths. His prick was about to burst. It even reached his legs, buzzing with it, sickly warmth, increasing in intensity as it neared his arousal. Paul was fucking dying.

“I just  _ adore _ you, Paul. I  _ do. _ ” John said, voice full of genuine adoration. Paul couldn’t even comprehend it. He was dying. 

“You’re  _ everything _ to me, Macca. You’re the  _ apple _ of my fucking eye.”

John’s breath hit his fucking face. The hot breath on his already burning face. Paul _ felt  _ like a fucking apple, his face likely red as a stoplight. He couldn’t imagine how it could be attractive. He was sweating like a pig, his pretty face contorted in intensity.

“Beautiful,  _ Beautiful,  _ Paul.” John continued in that sickly saccharine voice. His eyes were wide and glazed with admiration. It was fucking genuine. Paul knew what John sounded like when taking the piss out of him. John always had traces of facetiousness in the way he spoke, that was his sense of humor, but the truth in his words were apparent. John wasn’t fucking saying this to taunt him. It made Paul all the more uneasy.

Paul tried to spread his thighs as far as they’d go, take the strain off his prick, have any minimal relief. The cold air only did so much. It was a useless task, but it took more effort to hold still than to keep grinding fruitlessly up into the open air.

John just kept droning on and on.

“There’s  _ nothing  _ I wouldn’t give to you. All I want is ya to be  _ happy, _ Paul. I adore ya. I  _ do. _ ” John’s voice got sillier at the end there.

“I could make ya feel so  _ nice,  _ Paul. You don’t need’ta be miserable. I shouldn’t need to  _ sedate  _ ya.”

Paul wanted to fucking kill him. That fucker. That absolute shit. Fucking John. Fucking hell. 

John went back to the nonsensical praise, words spilling out of his mouth like a sickness.

“How  _ lovely _ you are, Paul. All the girls I’ve had, they aren’t  _ half  _ as good. I’ve never seen a face like yers, as  _ lovely  _ as yers. I could fuck ya for hours. Days maybe.” John mused.

His words became more incomprehensible, speaking nonsense.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful...thy sweet eyes, These lily lips, This cherry nose, These yellow cowslip cheeks, Are gone, are gone!”

John giggled, sickeningly. He shook Paul’s wrists in his hold from giddy affection. Paul’s head hurt. Nothing compared to his prick though. Paul felt the blood inside it, how it swelled with blood. John’s face was right in front of his, staring deep into it. Paul couldn’t focus on his features, his eyes blurring. It was a stupid lovesick expression, gazing amorously and hungrily down at him as Paul gasped for air and whined. John’s hands were tight against his wrists, the bare skin of them pressing tight against the bare skin of Paul’s wrists.

Paul was hyperaware of every sensation, John’s grip, the breath on his face, the hot breath. It shot straight to his prick. It didn’t matter who it was, that it was John, that it was what John wanted. Paul didn’t care who it was, he needed hands on him, he needed relief immediately or he’d surely die. Paul could feel his back lying on the bed, the pillow propping him up, how his head sunk into it. Paul could feel the bed graze against his back as he shifted. He could feel the heat radiating off John’s body, but it was nothing compared to the burning within himself. John was hovering over him, knees resting on either side of Paul’s body, hands gripping Paul’s wrists tight to his chest, Paul’s fingers twitching uselessly.

Paul gasped for air as John continued to speak, the breaths heated and wet on his skin. They curled around his neck and vibrated against his ears, a rough grating texture, even though John was trying to make it soft. Paul felt damp. His face must be damp with sweat, his hair even. John was relishing it, Paul could tell. Paul didn’t care. His eyes rolled back, his mouth unable to close. His prick was burning and coursing with his heartbeat throbbing through it. His slit was already leaking.

“Nobody can please ya the way I can. You know this Paul. The girls certainly can’t. I know yer sweet body inside and out. Yer sweet little prick. Ask, and I’ll touch it. Ya need it so badly don’t ya? Sweet little thing, all desperate and leakin’ pink on yer belly there. I wanna touch it, Paul, make ya squeal yer gleeful squeals, but I can’t, see, ya won’t let’me…”

The beaded precum leaked from his slit, then rolled, painfully slowly, down the curve of Paul’s shaft. It was beyond excruciating. It left a wet trail, a painfully teasing sensation as it slid down what felt like exposed, heated nerves. The cold air hit the trail of moisture as Paul cried out pathetically. Paul cried and cried, the tickling sensation unbearable. He yanked at his wrists, but his strength couldn’t focus. His hips jerked up, finding nothing. Paul cried out.

“Fucking stop! Fucking stop!” Paul shrieked, finally finding his voice. He couldn’t fucking take it anymore. He felt that John was only dragging on and on to mess with him. Paul swallowed his pride with great dread.

His breaths got more frantic.

“Fuckin’ touch’me! Fuckin’ please jus’ fuckin’ touch’me! Fucking  _ Christ!”  _ Paul cried. Tears were running from his eyes, rolling down his burning cheeks. “I fuckin’ hate ya! I fuckin’ hate ya! M’fucking dying! I fuckin’  _ hate ya!” _

  
John grinned wider, eyes becoming more crazed as Paul sobbed, not from anger or sadness, but from desperation, his entire body shaking. John didn’t seem put off by Paul’s harsh words.

Paul nearly screamed his throat hoarse when John’s hand wrapped tightly around his shaft, a sound so obscene he would’ve never made it before. Paul was loud during sex, but never like this. Fucking hell, overwhelming sharp pleasure went through his entire lower half, it was nearly as painful as not touching it, but this was good pain. Paul’s head felt light, relief washing over it, the hair on his neck standing on end. Paul’s fists clenched hard enough to go white. His wrists were free, but he couldn’t even notice. His back arched, his hips clearly shaking with need.

John didn’t fucking move his hand. He just kept it wrapped tight around Paul’s shaft, keeping a firm pressure. Paul bucked his hips and screamed. The grip was too tight, holding it in place. Paul couldn’t fuck into the fist, giving him much needed friction. Horrible!

“More, Paul?” John said amusedly. It was fucking humiliating. “I won’t do anything ya don’t ask. Anything ya want, Paul, but I won’t do a thing more.”

Paul wanted to kill him. John fucking  _ knew.  _ Fucking  _ knew  _ what he was doing. He was using Paul’s own fucking words against him.

Paul couldn’t stand it. He needed it. Paul would fucking die if John didn’t do it. He gritted his teeth, hot tears of intensity pricking the edges of his eyes. Was his body shaking? It felt like it was, his heart beating so quickly.

“Oh god, oh Christ!” Paul strained from the bottom of his throat, his voice breaking. “Need’it, now, do’it now, do’it, do’it-I’m fucking  _ dying,  _ I’m fucking-”

Paul couldn’t finish his thought, as the hand began to move. Paul gasped, his mouth wide open, sucking in air, filling his lungs as he cried. Pleasure filled his entire abdomen. It was so good, so fucking good. Paul’s vision became blurry, pinpricks going through his hands, his neck. The only sensation Paul could think of however, was the hand on his prick. He could feel the skin, the dip between each of the fingers, a tight fist around his dick. The skin was rougher, calloused in places, nowhere as soft as a woman, but Paul got sick satisfaction as it dragged against him. Oh yes! Yes!

Paul’s voice felt strangled and nasally, pressure throughout the entirety of his body. Paul felt so close to bursting. The rough skin grazed against his hypersensitized prick deliciously, sharp thick pleasure over his entire gut. It was building inside him. Just a little more, Paul needed just a little more.

Paul let out a strangled cry, attempting a very garbled  _ “yes!”  _ John was looking at him, not smiling now, but with a hypnotized expression, looking as if he were salivating from the mouth. Paul couldn’t care. His vision was blurred, unable to focus on one thing for too long. He could only think of his building arousal, he felt it coming. He needed hands on him. He needed John to keep jerking his prick in that painfully tight grip.

Paul began to thrust up into it, his instincts taking over. Paul’s mind was far gone, but he knew to jerk his hips up into the tightness enveloping his pecker. Paul was a man, and he needed to jerk into it.

_ Yes, Paul. Keep thrusting. Fuck her. Fuck her. Tight hot cunt, fuck into it. Keep going. Cum inside her. Cum good and deep. Good, Paul. Cum inside her. Keep thrusting. Yes, Paul. _

If he kept jerking his hips he’d find release, he’d finally have release. Paul needed it so badly...fucking hell, he needed it so fucking...

Paul was cumming not a second later, a violent one too. It tore through him, white hot pleasure centered directly on his painfully hard arousal. He screeched. Paul didn’t think to hold back noise, let out a less ugly sound. He couldn’t even think, his head completely blank. John kept jerking him through it, and Paul kept crying out and thrusting erratically up. Paul released his fluid, and that finally gave him relief, coming out of him like burning heat, the pressure being released from his abdomen.

For a split second, Paul was satisfied. A wide grin of bliss was on his face, catching his breath, relief washing over his body, especially his abdomen. 

He’d come down from it...but he didn’t. Paul’s skin was heating again as he caught his breath. He’d become less desperate down there, but he was still half hard, hardening again. Paul would’ve hardened again, even if John wasn’t slowly stroking him back to size with that same damned hand, Paul’s release leaking down his fingers as the hand moved. Paul drew heavy breaths, his head hot again. Paul had felt relief, but his knob was stirring again, the pressure building again.

“No, no, what?” Paul gasped horror-stricken from his numb tingling lips, his eyes wide in desperation. He wasn’t satisfied, oh God, it wasn’t enough. Paul’s arousal was increasing again, looking to reach that horrible intensity.

  
Paul tossed his head back and forth on the pillow.

  
“John, John, help me, hemp me,” Paul whined helplessly. He didn’t care that it was John, or any implications that came with that. John just happened to be nearby. Paul needed help. He was so fucking desperate. He didn’t care who it was. His heart rate began to climb again. Paul thrust his hips up. He forced his eyes open and met John’s gaze with anguish.

“John, help’me, please, help’me, m’gonna die, John, help’me.”

John fucking laughed at him, quite pleased with his condition. It was giving him awfully smug satisfaction, Paul begging for it, crying for John to help him. The laughter wasn’t malicious at the very least, John wasn’t looking down at him. He seemed endeared by Paul. Maybe that made it worse.

Paul grabbed weakly at the fabric of John’s suitcoat, tugging at it. John’s hands went to Paul’s dress shirt, undoing the rest of the buttons. Paul felt at John’s arms as they moved. Paul’s breath was shaky. He wasn’t in anguish, but he still needed it. His head buzzed. Paul needed more, pleasant arousal building in his core. Paul needed more.

“John, John...help’me.” Paul mumbled nonsensically from his spit-slicked parted lips. “Help’me, John.”

John took it as an invitation to crush his lips against Paul’s, his face already in front of him. Paul’s eyes rolled back in pleasure, his hips instinctively rising against the air. John delved deep into Paul’s addicting mouth as he sucked deep into it. John sucked in Paul’s breaths as if it were a drug.

Paul’s mouth was hot and wet and damp, much hotter than usual. John couldn’t get enough of the taste, parting Paul’s soft petal lips. John traced every chip and imperfection of Paul’s teeth. John adored every little imperfection. He traced Paul’s jagged right canine and the place where his incisor overlapped the other. John felt Paul’s sharp lover canine graze against the underneath of his tongue, and that sensation shot straight to his groin. He groaned into Paul’s mouth, his receptive mouth. He could feel Paul’s tongue against his, the tongue that bewitched him so much with its voice, and sang such sweet ballads, sliding against his, feverish and wet. John sucked Paul’s bottom lip into his mouth. He bit down on it, and Paul moaned. John felt just as drugged as Paul, Paul making lust overtake his entire body. He’d been withdrawn from it too. Paul was his aphrodisiac, every second of his waking hours.

Paul rolled his hips in rhythm with the ravishing of his mouth. Paul was burning up, unable to hold back a single thing. John could feel the heat radiating off Paul’s damp skin. Paul groaned at every touch, always craving more.

So John lowered himself, giving Paul something to rut against. Paul did. He could feel Paul’s arousal rutting against the material of his dress pants, hips increasingly excited at finally getting satisfaction at their movements. Paul’s heart was beating faster, John could feel it over the entirety of Paul’s skin, inside of his mouth. Paul’s swollen head was worrying the smooth material, catching on it, his precum leaving damp little spots, darkening the fabric. 

John shifted his own hips, moving them so Paul’s was thrusting up against his own heat through the material.

_ God! _ Oh hell, oh  _ Christ,  _ Paul rutting against him, desperately and needily, oh  _ hell.  _ Paul had strength, the strength birds didn’t, and the desperation...Oh hell…

John moved his hands, tightly gripping Paul by his hips. They were bare, and soft, yet firm in his tight grip. They were the perfect size, perfectly curved from his waist, not a frail waist, not as dramatically so as a woman, but slender and soft, and irresistible. John could feel the give of them, the burning heat, and the hip bones against his thumbs. He grinded back against Paul’s arousal, rutting back into it in return. The fabric was between them, restricting John, but it made it all the better. John couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

Oh hell, Paul was rutting back too, rutting back up against him. Paul was hard and hot, and slid against him through the material. John wanted to feel him bare, the heat and the dampness, as desperate as he was, another knob sliding against his with equal passion,  _ Paul’s knob. _

He grumbled Paul’s name into his mouth, something along the lines of  _ “oh yes, oh yes.”  _ Paul was moaning too, muffled by the kiss. His were even less illegible, his head clouded with lust.

Not now, John didn’t want to finish now. Not with Paul still so far from his satisfaction. 

John’s fingers fumbled at the last of Paul’s shirt buttons. The fabric was damp with sweat, and Paul would be better off without it. John Pulled back, Paul’s taste still in his mouth. John’s salivated at it. Paul’s eyes were blurry with arousal, but Paul was looking at him. Paul was overtaken by the aphrodisiac, but he wasn’t unconscious. When he looked at John, he was seeing him.

John pulled him up by each side of his unbuttoned dress shirt, lifting Paul to a seat, before tugging Paul’s arms out of it. Paul looked up at him under his dark arched eyebrows, beautiful lidded eyes looking deep into his. John would be the source of his relief, so he was looking at him in turn. 

John felt exposed, those eyes boring into his with the deep lust burning through Paul’s body. Paul’s eyes had the capability of being so intense. John had looked into Paul in this way, deep into his eyes, but Paul had never looked back. Paul’s eyes were always miserable, uncomfortable, humiliated, or empty, but now Paul was unraveling him with his gaze, on equal footing. Paul wanted his release.

In any other circumstance, John wouldn’t want to be rendered vulnerable, give up his control, but John allowed it, he wanted it. Paul was welcome inside of him. John was overcome with the feeling, the sensation even reaching his fingertips, making them buzz with the emotion. It was never like this before, not with the broads he fucked, not with Paul, not even with his wife. John was completely sober (more or less), but he felt completely separate from the physical world, outside of time.

Paul’s skin was damp, still hot to the touch. John rested his hands on the slope of Paul’s shoulder, and Paul drew heavy breaths, his chest heaving. Paul was absolutely lovely shirtless. He looked nothing like a girl either, this part of his body clearly masculine, Paul’s broad shoulders and the slight amount of hair dusting the center of his chest. Still, it was lovely. Paul wasn’t chiseled, the tone mostly on his limbs. Paul’s chest was soft, his stomach was soft, beautifully pale.

Paul’s head turned to the side, his eyes falling shut. Paul’s back arched, his chest rising, leaning into the touch. . Time had slowed to a crawl. John’s hands were shaky too, feeling Paul’s soft skin graze against his fingertips and palms. John ran them over the slope of Paul’s shoulders, over Paul’s deltoids. Paul’s arms were toned, especially in the shoulders. He wasn’t like a woman here, he didn’t have fragile delicate arms. They were soft and curved, more slender, but strong, dark hair along his forearms. Any muscles in his shoulders were delicate and lovely, lessening, curving into the dip of his back. John let his hands move down Paul’s arms, firm enough to feel their shape and give, but no so much as to be a tight grip.

John ended on Paul’s hands, his fingers curling around Paul’s slender ones, Paul’s short immaculate fingernails, the callouses on the fingertips. John had always adored those hands. John’s heart leapt when they curled around John’s in return. 

John stroked them with his thumbs. Paul’s hands were shaking. It wasn’t out of emotion, as John’s were. It was the drug, overtaking Paul’s entire body with unbearable heat and arousal. Paul’s shoulders slumped, and his head bowed, his soft stomach podging as he slouched over. Paul’s grip got tighter. Paul was gripping him back only to ground himself. Paul’s breaths were labored, his skin hot. The previous release gave him only temporary relief. It was building up inside him again, Paul’s knob was swollen beneath that sweet stomach, that soft dark pubic hair, beginning to throb angrily with his heartbeat. 

“S’alright, Paul.” John said to him. John gently pushed him to where he lay before. Paul brought his hands back up by his head, arching his back on the mattress. He gasped for breath. Paul’s hands fumbled around, before once again finding his knob, unable to hold back, grip tightening around it.

“Help’me.” Paul said, a hiss from his puffy lips.

John hooked his fingers around the rim of Paul’s unbuttoned dress trousers, tugging them fully off. Paul aided him, raising his hips, shifting out of them, still attempting to keep a rhythm with his tossing off and jerks of his hips. Paul was mumbling nonsense in neediness. John allowed a brief moment to look over him. Paul’s pink swollen head kept appearing between his tightly clasped hands as he thrusted into them. Paul’s head was tilted back, his mouth open, gasping and whining, looking upwards blurrily. It was a mesmerizing thing to watch, nothing compared to the brief glances John got during the late hours of the night.

He reached for Paul’s hands again, holding both of Paul’s lovely uncoordinated wrists together, making it impossible for Paul to touch himself. Paul cried again. He couldn’t fucking…

“S’alright, Macca, It’s alright.” John muttered lovingly. He held Paul’s wrists up in one hand, shifting to the side of the bed. He sorted through his open suitcase, looking through it. “Lemme jus…”

Paul’s dick fucking ached. His eyes rolled up and he cried. It strained upwards. He couldn’t do much to help himself with just his legs, besides give an instinctive jerk of the hips. Humiliatingly, every time he did this, John seemed to garner enjoyment and amusement.

John pushed apart Paul’s lovely full thighs as far as they’d go. John raised one of Paul’s long legs as he trembled, resting it on his shoulder. John slicked up a finger with Vaseline, then pressed it against the rim of Paul’s entrance, stroking around the rim. There was a fair bit of resistance. He’d have to ease into Paul tonight given that John hadn’t taken him in a while. 

Paul made a sound of discomfort at the prodding, John’s finger attempting to breech him. Paul shifted his hips, but John kept them still. Paul trembled from the sensation, but also from anticipation. His whole body was screaming for stimulation, and Paul knew how it felt to have that spot inside him pressed. In the back of his mind, he knew the discomfort at the action and its implication. 

Paul’s abdomen burned with need though, for it to be pressed, kneaded into, a spot Paul would never want to touch himself. He knew that John would though. John would give him that, forcing pleasure out of him like he always did. In this one instance, Paul was relying on it. Paul needed release more than anything else. He’d do anything, take anything John had to give to achieve it.

When it finally pushed inside him, Paul cried out. Not from pain. The stretch was heavenly. John added another finger and found that damned spot inside him. It was awful, a thousand times more sensitive than his prick. It was as if John was touching exposed nerves, and throughout all the violations, John had learned how to do it just so that Paul’s prick leaked and horrible shots of pleasure ran through his abdomen.

Paul’s thighs shuddered and his heart rate jumped. John pressed and pressed, tapping against that damned spot. Paul twisted in the hold, sweat running down his forehead. He might’ve even been drooling. Paul felt so feverish he couldn’t even notice. Fucking pride. Paul had no fucking pride. He couldn’t even think. His head buzzed with the sensation as he made the most unattractive sounds.

“Such a sweet thing you are, Paul.” John’s words spilled out adoringly. He wasn’t eloquent, mumbling whatever came to his head. John’s left hand pressed down on Paul’s lower abdomen as his right hand focused on pleasuring his friend. John kept speaking, grumbling in his throat.

“I’know ya told me not’ta treat you like a’bird, but I can call ya tha’, can’t I? Fuckin’ pretty you’are, Macca. Fuckin’ sexy tart. Can’t get enough of’ya. Wanna always put m’hands on ya. Fucking tart. Kills me, son.”

Paul stared upwards with his eyes wide open as he gasped for air. All he could think of was the sensation. His second release was building, but he needed more. He couldn’t get off solely by having that terrible spot massaged.

John kept pressing into it, covering the entirety of that spot. He kept trying, experimenting to get new sounds out of Paul, louder sounds, new reactions. It was working too, that little spot was more sensitive than his prick, a more direct invasive contact, straight to his core, those fingers burning a hole into him. Paul panted for breath as fresh sweat beaded at his skin.

“ _ Johnny! _ ”

Paul begged and shifted, needing more stimulation. John was happy to comply. Paul’s prick was hard and pink on his soft stomach, and John couldn’t help but take it in his mouth, groaning as he did so. It was delicious. There was nothing as satisfying as Paul’s strangled cry at having his prick enveloped by a tight wet heat. John took Paul deeper, then began to move, absolutely relishing in the weight of his sweet prick, how swollen and needy it was. The shaft throbbed as his lips ran along it, already desperate again.

John knew exactly how Paul liked it. He’d memorized Paul like the back of his hand. He’d committed to memory every one of his erogenous zones, the places that drove Paul mad. He wanted nothing more than to pleasure Paul, the way Paul pleasured him.

Because of it, John paid special attention to Paul’s rubbery head, teasing the slit with his tongue. It gave him equal reward, the delicious taste of Paul’s precum, already leaking from there. He circled the clans, and pressed at Paul’s frenulum. Paul loved pressure on his frenulum. 

Paul’s hands shot to John’s head, pushing him down bluntly, thrusting up into the heat and wetness of his mouth. John reeled. Paul was _ touching _ him, John  _ loved _ it when Paul touched him. John was a fool for it. Maybe he was under Paul’s thumb, but he didn’t care. That’s where he wanted to be.

He groaned Paul’s name, garbled by the swollen length lodged in his throat, Paul’s length. John was drunk off it, nose brushing against those soft pubes, damp with condensation, the scent of Paul’s arousal stronger than ever. It was enough to drive a man half-mad.

“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny-” Paul kept mumbling nonsensically from his wet parted lips, his eyes rolled up and unfocused as his hips moved.

Paul’s hips rolled in an obscene way, fucking up into John’s mouth with little restraint. Paul’s hands grabbed and tugged at John’s hair, pushing his head lower. John didn’t mind at all. In fact, Paul’s forcefulness only made him hungrier, only made John want to take him deeper. He wanted Paul to be the reason he couldn’t breathe. The only thing John  _ could _ breathe in was the scent of Paul’s intense arousal, the heat and condensation from his body, collecting in his pubic hair. Hearing his name fall from Paul’s gorgeous lips, choked with need, was music to John’s ears. There’s nothing he’d rather hear.

John wondered how he was with the women when they gave him a nosh, how forceful he was. Paul fucked them the regular way rather callously, but the women were able to take it for the most part. It wasn’t because Paul was cruel, rather that he was excitable, fucking them gleefully. 

Paul’s entrance was still very tight around his fingers. John was pressing into that spot, pumping his fingers in and out, getting Paul to enjoy the sensation of something thrusting inside him. Paul should already love it, John had given him so much pleasure that way before. Paul made a guttural sound from low in his throat.

John enjoyed it deeply, Paul’s sounds. Paul’s unearthly voice stirred him otherwise, but unrestrained sounds of sexual pleasure were on another level entirely. It caressed John’s ears, warming his body, shooting straight to his arousal. The way Paul came undone was something incomparable.

Such pretty fingers in his hair. Such gentle sweet hands Paul had. The hair on the back of John’s neck stood on end, feeling those hands pushing down on his head. Paul’s bare thighs grazed against the sides of John’s face, another addicting sensation. John could feel the soft fuzzy hair on them, the heat coming off Paul’s skin. Paul’s thighs alone could make John blow his load, gorgeous things, full and shapely and pale, the dark hair on them.

John took him deeper, pressing his tongue flat against the curve of his spine, where blood tended to collect, where Paul was sensitive. Paul cried out, pushing John down. Arousal throbbed in John’s body, his nose wrinkling at the scent. It was delicious. The dampness of Paul’s member was addicting, as well as Paul’s loud cries.

“Johnny, Johnny,  _ Help’me.” _ Paul begged pitifully, his voice garbled and pained. John knew if it weren’t for his condition, Paul would never be so blatant. John didn’t think any less of Paul for it. John was a fool to Paul himself. He had another man’s knob in his mouth, unable to get enough of the taste. John wasn’t one to judge.

Paul opened his thighs wider for him, for John to better thrust his fingers in and out, massage that spot inside of him. 

Paul’s rubbery head kept hitting his throat, John taking sick satisfaction in the way it choked him. The sides of Paul’s shaft, the skin there, was impossibly soft and delicate, like silk sliding against the inside of John’s mouth. The length lay heavy on John’s tongue, swollen with blood and need, sliding back and forth with quickening speed. John could feel Paul’s heartbeat coarse through it, feel it twitch and throb, clearly alive.

As John roughly fingered him, he used his thumb to stroke up and down Paul’s perineal raphe with his thumb. Paul was reacting beautifully to each and every sensation, and John couldn’t get enough.

“Dyin’, Johnny,  _ Johnny-”  _ Paul choked. It developed into a whine. It drove John mad. Paul was calling to him, and it made his heart swell. Paul wanted him. Finally, Paul was begging for his touched, the way it should’ve been. All John wanted was to please him. John adored him.

Paul’s hips shuddered erratically, his body shivering, another strangled cry. John’s heart fluttered when he felt the first delicious burst of fluid. John nearly groaned himself. He could feel Paul’s prick spasm, it pulse as it shot that hot release. John swallowed every bit of love Paul gave him, Paul’s cries in his ears, Paul’s hips shuddering as his second orgasm shook through him.

“Ah-I-” Paul cried, his voice breaking, the pitch becoming higher. He gave another strangled moan.

Paul’s hips slowed as the last of it was released, whimpering as John milked every bit of it out, pressing into his prostate. Paul’s hands relaxed some, still resting on John’s head, fingers curled around the strands of hair. 

John raised his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He sat up higher, looking down at Paul completely spellbound, dreamy eyed.

Paul’s eyes were shut tight, sweat on his forehead, his lovely dark strands damp. It reminded John of how Paul got after some performances, the hot lights and Paul’s excitement, rendering him a sweaty mess. They became even more crazed looking after their earlier days, wearing leather, jerking all over the stage before Brian toned it down. It was a familiar sight, and made John all the more affectionate for him. Paul’s hands lay beside him uselessly on the bed, his legs slightly parted.

Paul blinked his eyes open, but they were still cloudy. His eyelashes were wet from the intensity, as well as his lips. They were parted as Paul caught his breath, beautiful pink petals, his dark hair disheveled.

Paul shifted his long legs, his eyebrows knitting. His prick had softened, laying on his gentle stomach, but after another temporary spell of relief, he was hardening again. Paul began to grow panicked.

“John! John! S’again-help’me.” He pleaded, looking nowhere in particular. Paul shifted his legs, trying to find relief.

“S’alright, I’ve got ya, Macca.” John said, his gentle tone of voice.

He held Paul’s legs, pulling them apart. Paul offered no resistance. His eyes shifted to John, and John met them. Paul was looking at him with such need, knowing that John would give him the relief he so desperately craved. John was happy to. 

John knew there was a tenderness in his own eyes as he looked back, further than desire or lust. John felt a deep fondness looking at Paul. He didn’t mind if it showed. He didn’t mind if Paul knew.

John pushed Paul’s thighs forward in a trance, and Paul allowed it. John kept the right one up, and pushed a finger inside of Paul. Glancing at Paul’s face, he saw some shame, cutting through the haze of lust, at John’s hands on him, at his need for what was about to be done to him. It hurt John, that Paul felt this way, even now.

John added another finger, then curled them, pushing hard into the spot. Paul’s back instantly arched, gasping, his hands curling into fists. His eyes were shut tight. 

“That’sit Macca, lovely Paul, feel’s nice.” John murmured to him.

Paul’s eyes shut, his lips trembling. John added another finger, trying to ready him. Paul was well prepared from before, as well as the wetness from John’s mouth that had leaked down the crevices of his ass. 

Paul knew what was to come, and the thrusting of the fingers didn’t help him not think about the gravity of it. Paul didn’t like being fingered like a bird. Paul fucking fingered broads, them squirming on his left hand. No matter what John tried to tell him, it was still humiliating getting fucked. 

Paul gritted his teeth and his hands were clenched. He needed it though, he needed whatever John would give him. His prick was hardening again, it would become unbearable again.

It wasn't long before John decided Paul was ready. He didn’t want to wait a second longer, and he knew Paul wouldn’t be able to bear it. 

John undid his dress trousers, coming closer. When he spread Paul’s legs further, pressing his blunt head to the small entrance, Paul squeezed his eyes shut in bashfulness, slight shame, despite how desperate he was. He was shivering. John pushed Paul’s legs upwards more, trying to make more room for himself. He stroked them with his hands, feeling the soft hair graze against his palms. 

John increased the pressure, intending to slowly push in, but Paul grimaced. John stopped where he was, but didn’t pull back.

“Paul, look’it me, wouldjya?” He said softly, a bit sadly. “Don’ make tha’ face. It’ll feel nice, Paul. It’ll stop the burning.”

Paul opened his eyes a fraction, looking warily up at him, his face still flushed and clammy. He clenched and unclenched his hands. He knew he needed it. He’d only be satiated by human contact.

Arousal churned within him, the aphrodisiac doing its work. Christ, Paul wanted to be ravaged. The implications were fading in his head. His prick was rock hard again, throbbing between his thighs. It was all so much, and he needed to be pleasured in suit, intense pleasure. It had to be done to him, Paul going out of his mind as he accepted the pleasure. 

The sensation itself, he wanted it. The thrusting, and the filth, and the friction against that spot inside him. It didn’t matter that it would be giving John what he wanted. Paul was crawling with lust, and he wanted to cum over and over until the horrible drug was flushed from his system. His prick itself was getting overwhelmed, the friction on it’s sensitive skin. Any more and it’d start to stop feeling so good.

Paul swallowed his pride. He pushed his lips together, and gave a jerky nod, shifting his legs wider. He let out a breath of nausea. Paul needed it so badly, or he’d go mad.

John’s mouth stretched slightly in a small smile. He was looking down at Paul, his pupils blown, captivated by him, but also in anticipation. At last, he slowly began to push into his dear friend, finally connected again.

With every centimeter, Paul cried out obscenely, the ugliest sounds. It wasn’t from pain, but rather the stretch, the girth being pushed into him. It was thicker than the fingers, with a familiar give, as hard and heated as Paul’s was. Clearly an organ, clearly alive, throbbing with a heartbeat. It was so satisfying, the intensity of the sensation. Paul’s body needed intensity, intensity to counteract the intensity burning through his body, making his heart race, his skin hot, his prick nearly close to bursting.

Paul’s legs twitched as the intrusion slowly entered him, pushing into him, stretching him. The feeling never got any less bizarre, something inside him, something Paul had his own of, heated and angry and swollen. John seemed to never get enough of it though, completely obsessed with being inside Paul, obsessed enough to go to these manic lengths to get it. 

Paul didn’t understand it. John was mad for him, and he didn’t understand why. He knew that John loved him, but never to this extent. He’d thought John was his brother. This was beyond simply cracking under the pressure, Paul only happening to be close by. John could find a broad to fuck at a moment’s notice. It was Paul he wanted, Paul he was fixated on.

The drug was too much. Paul couldn’t think whilst on it. All he could think of was his release. John would give it to him. He knew John would. He wanted to believe John cared for him, even if it was to this sick extent. He could rely on John to help him. John was here to help him. John was his best mate. John would do anything for him. Anything but leaving him be.

Paul wanted to believe John cared for him. Paul wanted to be cared for. He was tired, and there was a constant expectation of him, always something new to do. If it was comfort he wanted, John was giving it to him, relieving the horrible burning. There was nothing Paul needed more than release, and John would give it to him. John would be there for him if nobody else was. He’d told Paul so. Nobody else could understand Paul’s situation the way John did, even out of the others in the group. Him and John had the added pressure of writing the songs. Elvis had to face all of this alone, but he had John.

Paul shifted, trying to accommodate it inside him, such a strange feeling still, all the while his arousal nagged at him. John cooed at him, and praised him in his harsh grumbly voice. Paul had a split second of cognition, seeing John’s hands pushing his thighs as far apart as they’d go, John’s eyes boring impassioned into his face, Paul’s own swollen prick lying on his bunched up stomach,  _ seeing  _ the length  _ entering  _ him as if Paul were a broad!

Paul began to feel the nausea, the sickening feeling, John’s scent around him, the sickly heat all over Paul’s body. John’s voice, John’s body hovering over him. It was all horribly intimate, sexual, John was  _ entering _ him. This was John’s  _ fantasy, _ having Paul enjoy it as much as he was.

The thought passed as quick as it come. John grazed against that spot, dragging against it as it was stretched thin. Paul couldn’t think once that happened. He needed it. Oh christ, Paul needed it more than anything.

“Please, Johnny, Johnny, please.” Paul strained nonsensically. His lips felt numb and he couldn’t think. He jerked his hips. He needed John to move. Paul needed hands on him, hands on his prick. He needed more...more...

John pressed a kiss to his mouth, then another, and another. John’s mouth pressed to Paul’s cheeks, then his forehead, then his small upturned nose. John’s lips were on his neck, then on his ear, taking it in his mouth, then back to Paul’s lips.

John began to move inside him. Paul stretched to accommodate him beautifully. There was nothing like it, Paul’s heat and tightness. Instinct took over, John’s hips moving of their own accord. They knew where they were, and they were glad to be there. Beyond John himself, his own body, further than his mind, craved Paul’s. It knew him and craved him. Perhaps it was something bigger than the both of them, beyond their own hubris and minds, that their bodies were meant to have each other like this. Maybe if it wasn’t for Paul’s silly hangups, he’d crave John in return. Why else would Paul fit him so perfectly?

Being inside Paul gave him warmth and familiarity, as if that was where he was supposed to be. Paul was a perfect fit for him, the perfect sensation that nothing could compare to. It was Paul, who he’d known for so long, closer to him than anybody before and since. Nobody knew him the way Paul did, but Paul had still loved him despite it. Paul was always there. He was his partner and his best mate. It was Paul who he’d shared those shitty filthy little rooms with so long ago. He’d played empty clubs with Paul, shrieking and jerking around the dingy stages like madmen because there was nobody watching but them.

They both stank and smoked and drank, filthy, bathing in urinals, and drugged up on uppers, yet Paul was still the loveliest thing he’d laid eyes on, pasty face dripping with sweat, his hair disheveled and dark as he screamed his face pink, spewing spit onto the microphone. He’d seen Paul fucking broads against the dingy club walls in those dark corners, his hands white gripping their hips, Paul’s jerky movements and indecent stifled sounds, how obscene it all was with Paul’s palm flat against the wall, a leg curled around him. He’d seen Paul fuck prostitutes in their shitty beds (mattresses put on the floor) in the backrooms, how the mattress would creak and Paul’s garbled pants. He’d seen Paul drunk off his ass, whooping and making a fool of himself as he told the most stupid gags, breaking into intentionally terribly sung songs, vomiting in alleyways.

John couldn’t stop himself. It overtook all of him. Paul. Paul. Paul. Paul. That was all he could think of. It ate at his mind like a burning need. It had to be Paul. It couldn’t be anyone else. He needed Paul. He wanted to be consumed by Paul, taken by Paul. John was a fool for him, and Paul had a hold over him like nothing else did.

John buried his head in Paul’s neck, his closed eyes rolling back in bliss. He was drunk off of Paul, needing to be closer. John breathed the intoxicating scent of Paul in, the true scent, hidden under cigarettes and the scent of alcohol. Paul didn’t smell like a woman, but he didn’t have the foul scent many men did. It was sweet and lovely, as Paul was, the scent distinctly Paul’s.

Every roll of John’s hips made pleasure and warmth bloom in his abdomen. Paul’s passage was tight and warm, and clenched around him absolutely perfectly. Nothing compared to the feeling of being inside him, absolutely nothing. John had even tested out the suspicion, fucking a broad in the back, just to see if that was all it was, but it wasn’t anywhere close. Paul was his perfect fit, tightening around him beautifully, absolutely perfectly. Oh Christ, it was Paul, being inside of Paul. He was a part of Paul, and Paul was a part of him. John didn’t want to leave. He always wanted to be within Paul, be this close.

John needed to feel Paul’s bare skin against his, he realized. Then they’d be closer. John couldn’t stand being separated, even by the thin fabric of his dress shirt, horribly wrinkled now.

John lifted off Paul’s body, still inside him. Paul gazed up blurrily at him, and John looked back with every bit of adoration and hopeless reverence clear in his eyes. He was hasty in unbuttoning his shirt, near yanking off himself. His tie was already loosened.

He was back pressed flush to Paul in an instant, fucking deep into him. John in general fucked the way Paul did, rough, quick, carefree, but at this moment he couldn’t do anything but relish in every little sensation. John was in awe, dragging out every thrust, Paul’s insides squeezing onto him with every lingering movement. It was all so good, John could hardly think. His mind was blank, nothing there but Paul, overtaking every one of his seven senses.

John’s arms slid under Paul’s body, curling around his back, pulling him closer, pressing tighter against him, skin to skin. He could feel everything his eyes moved over, what he ate with his gaze, Paul’s soft gentle chest, his stomach, his lovely sides, soft beautiful skin. He could feel Paul’s heat and heartbeat. It was quicker than usual, a bit hotter than usual, but his two orgasms had made his condition less unbearable. Paul was alright to fuck, aroused enough to need it, but not so much that John’s lingering pace would be excruciating.

“Paul...ah, Paul…” John whispered into Paul’s neck. His hand moved over Paul’s full thigh, over his hip bone, over his ribs, curling around the side of his face. John moved his head, resting his forehead against Paul’s. He held Paul’s face gently, stroking his soft cheek with his thumb. Paul’s mouth was open, panting for breath as his cheeks flushed with the arousal. It had thankfully lessened, Paul being quite pink at the start of it. Paul’s eyes were teary and cloudy, but clearly cognizant. There was the light behind them, unlike when Paul was sedated, he had a light of desire. It was beautiful in those lidded hazel eyes.

John looked into them, the adoration pooling in his own irises. What a beauty Paul was. There wouldn’t be another man born this lovely.

John raised his head to better look down at him. He brought his other hand to cup Paul’s cheek, seeing Paul’s beautiful face in his own hands. John’s vision was starting to blur with the intensity. The sheets and bedding beside Paul’s face seemed to fade away, seeing nothing but Paul’s radiant beauty. John was hyperaware of Paul tight around him, sucking him deeper, clenching around him, so soft and tight and hot. John’s stomach buzzed with need. Paul’s mouth was open, making little gasping sounds as he was stimulated.

“Paulie...Macca…” John strained, it becoming harder to articulate.

Paul’s hands were running gently up his arms. John’s heart nearly burst, Paul’s gentle hands, calloused fingertips on his skin. It drove him half mad. Paul was heaving as the pressure built up inside him. John wanted to get him there, it was all he could think about. He wanted to give Paul his release, he wanted to see Paul’s face as he came, blurry eyes looking into his, overwhelmed. He wanted Paul to look at him, right at his eyes as pleasure overtook his body. John wanted to see that emotion in them.

“Paul…” 

John fell back onto him, his face in Paul’s neck. He was supposed to be the crass one, Paul the innocent one, according to the press anyway. It was silly characterizing them as that. It wasn’t so black and white, and Paul was anything but  _ innocent.  _

Furthermore, John wasn’t as cruel and carefree as they thought. He had his doubts about himself, of his music. If there was one thing that gave him security, it was Paul. He wanted Paul’s respect, his admiration, even back in the days when they barely had a group and John played with banjo chords. Here was this shrimpy thing, silly arched brows and a little mouth, playing Little Richard songs better than he even could. 

He didn’t have his parents back at home, but he had Paul, always with him. He relied on Paul for comfort as much as Paul had relied on him. He wanted Paul’s arms around him, not even necessarily in a sexual manner. He wanted Paul’s gentle calloused hands stroking through his hair, petal lips on his forehead, deep melodic voice soothing him. Even before all this, Paul had never been the touchy sort. Within the physical contact allowed, it was John for the most part initiating it. Despite himself, he’d felt envy at how Paul was with his girls, despite all his other shortcomings as a partner. Paul liked to feel like a gentleman, holding them, arms around their waists.

His lips dragged against Paul’s cheek, breathing in Paul’s scent. It was intoxicating. He pressed kiss after kiss to it. Maybe it was soft to do, but John had gone far beyond that. Very far beyond that. He was a complete fool for Paul, and he preferred it that way. There was nothing he wouldn’t give to Paul, whether it be his heart, his soul, or his whole being.

John’s forehead was back on Paul’s, looking into them adoringly. Paul’s eyes were foggy, but there. John reached down, between their bodies, taking Paul’s shaft in his hand. Paul’s eyes flashed at that as they looked into his, his hips shuddering in anticipation.

“Tha’s right, Paul, c’mon,” John cooed. Paul’s lips tightened and trembled, his legs going weaker. His eyes were pleading as they looked back at John’s, and they were seeing him, wanting him. It was all John could’ve asked for.

John tightened his grip, stroking Paul off in the same lingering pace as his thrusts. Paul’s mouth shot open, gasping for air, his breaths coming out as whines.

“Tha’s good, Macca. C’mon, baby,”

Paul cried out at that, the endearment. John’s lips were back on his cheek, nose wrinkling at the scent. Paul’s legs were spread wide, his skin damp and hot. John could feel Paul’s chest heave and his gentle stomach tighten. Oh, he loved it, Paul’s stomach. He loved all of it, every inch of Paul’s body. John wanted to put his mouth over every centimeter, tell Paul over and over how lovely he was. He wanted Paul to lie there and let him, no disgust, no discomfort, only happiness and contentment, accepting of John’s endless desire.

Maybe if John was a woman, Paul would want him. John didn’t want to be a woman, but that would make it almost worth it to consider. But John knew he’d never have Paul in the way he wanted, even then. He knew how Paul treated his girls. He’d be another fuck for Paul, then he’d toss John aside. Paul would find amusement at the concept of John’s devotion. Of course John wanted him, so did the other hundreds of women. Paul had hordes of them to choose from, and many of them were worth only one thing to him. 

If John was lucky enough that Paul would keep him around, he’d be no better off than Jane was, staying back at home as Paul went off on tour, sleeping with any broad he came across. Paul wouldn’t respect him, not in the way he did as a man, anyway. John was better off being himself, somebody Paul could see as an equal. John saw  _ him _ as an equal. In many ways, Paul was above him, John reaching up to grasp all that he could. Paul had a hold on him like a vice, eating away at his entire being.

“Ah, Paul…”

Paul’s head was turning, sinking into his own left shoulder as it became too much. John was still kissing his cheek, mouth on his neck, teeth on his ear. Paul’s ear was like a candy, immaculate and pink. John’s right hand was slowly yet passionately stroking Paul off, as his left arm curled around Paul’s back, bringing him closer. Paul was nearing release, John could tell. His voice was getting higher in his throat, Paul’s prick even heavier and twitching in a more inconsistent way.

“Paul, look’it me.” John asked, a grunt from his throat, full of need.

Reflexively, Paul’s eyes opened, darting to John’s. John’s heart leapt. He beamed at Paul, his eyes still foggy with adoration. He looked deep into them and Paul looked back. Paul was nearly there, no disgust, no resentment, only need. John was too. He knew they had the same thing overtaking their minds: their release.

John didn’t kiss him, but with their foreheads together, their lips nearly brushed. John breathed in Paul’s exhales, sucked them in. He didn’t want to take in a single thing that hadn’t come from Paul. He wanted to consume all of him, every flaw and imperfection Paul had. All of it. He wanted to be overtaken by Paul, he wanted Paul to take the very lifeblood out of his body. John didn’t mind.

John’s left hand moved from Paul’s back to curl around the back of Paul’s head. Paul’s dark hair was soft and cool against his hand, completely beautiful. It was heated at the roots, the condensation making it damp there. Paul’s hair was standing on end, and John stroked his fingers through it as he lay on top of him, offering relief. Paul shuddered and groaned, the sensations becoming too much.

John felt warmth and desire inside of him. It was too much. There was something tender within it, how his hand was gentle in Paul’s hair, the closeness and the silence, every bit of him consumed by Paul. 

John felt a stirring. It was something so gentle, yet present within him. It tugged at him, deep within him.

This wasn’t lust. This was way beyond lust. Lust was surpassed an eternity ago. It was too much. Christ. John knew what it was. Holy hell, holy Christ, he loved Paul. Of course he fucking did. He was absolutely hopelessly a fool for him. He adored Paul, every fault and imperfection, John knew them all. He loved Paul like he’d never felt it before. He should’ve known. Paul encompassing all of him at every waking moment, those eyes haunting his dreams. Paul was the only thing he wanted. Paul came to him because he was supposed to that day, Paul was always supposed to come to him. Paul was the reason he’d come this far, why he’d achieved every one of his aspirations. It was always supposed to be JohnandPaul, Lennon-McCartney. That’s the way it was. That’s what the headlines said, why they’d sold so many damn records. Paul was made for him, his perfect match, and John would never let him go.

  
“Oh, Paul…” John groaned, every bit of it dripping from his voice. Paul’s dark eyes were looking into his, such beautiful eyebrows, making him always look a bit aloof. John didn’t even know what to do. Paul’s soft thighs were against his body, but blocked by the fabric of John’s dress trousers. It was too late to remove them. John couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Paul was almost there, and so was he.

Paul’s arms were curled around his back, touching him, touching John, holding him, pulling him closer. Paul’s left hand was curled around his opposite wrist, arms linked around John. Paul’s skin against his back, Paul’s soft forearm hair. This was Paul, it wasn’t some girl. A girl’s arms wouldn’t be as large, it wouldn’t have this much hair. It was Paul holding him, nobody else.

“More, Macca? C’mon, tell’me, love-” John choked, voice dripping with adoration. Paul’s eyes squinted, straining to look at him. Paul’s lax mouth moved, unable to speak at first, before finding his voice.

“Help’me.” Paul said, the words cutting off from his spit-slicked lips, strangled from deep in his throat. “ _ Oh please, can’t- _ help’me... _ Johnny…” _

John knew he wouldn’t have gotten those sorts of words from Paul if he weren’t on the very brink. John sped up his hand, and Paul’s hips jerked, (as much as they could with John’s weight on top of him, John buried inside him to the hilt). Paul’s voice got higher, but still so sweetly deep, deeper than any woman’s, melodic and lovely, strangled and unrestrained. It pierced through John’s senses and drove him mad, shooting straight to his hard-on.

John wasn’t too far himself, fucking a consistent leak of precum into Paul, making him wetter and easier to fuck due to it. Paul’s entrance had since stretched better to accommodate him, accepting him as it clenched and sucked him in even further, Paul’s heat and heartbeat completely encompassing the most sensitized part of John’s body. It wasn’t like fucking a cunt at all, not even like fucking some other broad’s ass. 

Paul wasn’t painfully tight, which was good. If Paul was horribly tight, it would be worse for both of them. If John’s fucking was hurting Paul, it would be all wrong. If John’s immeasurable pleasure inflicted in equal part pain onto Paul, that wouldn’t be their perfect connection. It would be a man seeking power over Paul, seeking to emasculate and dominate him, putting Paul down for his own gain and sick satisfaction,  _ taking  _ pleasure from Paul’s lovely body rather than giving.

That’s what those men wanted, those other men that looked at Paul. They wanted to have him, they wanted to claim the delicate man, mark him. They thought less of him, solely because his pretty face made them question themselves. They saw him as lesser. They saw him as a woman.

John didn’t want that. John might’ve had a similar hunger, but he wanted  _ all  _ of Paul. He wanted to enter him, and have Paul take him, and become one until Paul could feel nothing but the pleasure, giving and taking, two beings, as it should be. 

It was like their music, a part of him, a part of Paul, eye to eye, a mirror image, as the music flowed from each of them. It was exactly the same as their music, this. It’s the way it always should have been, the exact same process, the buildup, the intimacy, until something bigger than the both of them was created, coming in equal part from the both of them, their minds one. John couldn’t procreate with Paul, but they could still create something new when put together, something that nobody else could, and they couldn’t alone.

That’s how it was now, Paul’s heart beating as fast as his was, reverberating through his whole body. Paul’s breath was his breath, Paul’s scent the only thing he breathed. Paul was still tight, tighter and holding him better than any other broad he’d been in. He’d fucked their asses too, but it was nothing like Paul’s.

He didn’t know what he’d be without Paul. There was no other reasonable outcome for them than this. All of it led to fucking Paul, having Paul for as long as he lived. Paul would become him, and he would become Paul. John couldn’t have this with anybody else, no woman, no man either. It was always supposed to be this way, JohnandPaul, Lennon-McCartney, together like this.

Paul’s hip movements were familiar, the way his breaths were high. John kept his rhythm steady, cradling Paul’s lovely head in his arm. Paul was getting louder, more desperate, labored breaths and unfocused eyes. His soft stomach was tightening.

“C’mon, lovely, give’t.”

Paul shrieked. It couldn’t be described as anything else. It came from his throat and his chest, and from deep within him. John had brought it out of him, he was the one who’d done it. Paul’s prick pulsed in his hand, the fluid landing hot between them. John didn’t pay it no mind as it splattered on his chest. Paul’s entire body tensed, legs stretching out, his back arching. 

John squeezed his knob firmer as the fluid shot out of it, coaxing it out, encouraging Paul. He made sure Paul expelled each and every drop, he’d be finally satisfied at last. Paul’s face contorted at the sensation, his mouth stretched wide open as he cried. Paul’s arms tightened around him, and John’s heart beat even quicker. Paul’s breaths were hot and damp on his face.

Paul tightened around his knob, contracting as his stomach tensed in intensity. John saw stars. He couldn’t take it anymore, Paul’s sounds, the way his body moved during orgasm, it was all too much. John began to fuck him harder, with all his strength, without any semblance of control. He was inside of Paul, and so so close. His hands were tight on Paul’s hips now, forcing them closer, fucking as deep into him as he possibly could.

Paul cried out at the sudden rise in pace, strain in his voice. He was coming down from his final orgasm, hypersensitive, and John was rougher with him now than he’d been the entire night. Paul’s arms braced on John’s shoulders, trying to push him back, but John was too determined, and Paul was weak from his multiple orgasms, the aphrodisiac having taken all his strength. Paul was softening as the last of his fluid dried on his skin, his body sore and completely spent. He shook from the overstimulation as John chased his own release. Paul cried out, his voice a touch hoarse now, high and desperate, pained even.

“John, John! Stop! I can’t-”

Luckily, Paul only had to endure it a second before John was releasing, forcing himself deep and holding Paul’s hips as close and tight as he could. It was nearly painful, John’s head completely blank.

The only think John could hear was white noise, his sensation completely overtaking him. He fucked it out of himself, John’s hips moving of their own accord, Paul’s passage as impossibly good as ever, taking him, taking in every drop of his release, His ears rang and his eyes blurred, seeing Paul under him. Paul was in distress, but too weak to do more than take it, his overstimulated body trembling. Paul’s hands were on John’s shoulders, grounding himself, gripping tightly into them, leaving white marks, driving John mad.

John buried himself as deep as he could go, releasing the last of it. All he could think of was Paul, Paul under him, being inside of him, Paul’s lovely hands on his shoulders, and Paul’s thighs squeezing his bod. Paul was impossibly beautiful, all of him. The sweat on John’s forehead dripped onto Paul’s soft skin. He rocked his hips, John’s eyes shut, and Paul was all he could breathe in.

John came down from it, softening inside his friend. He lay on top of Paul, catching his breath, his head buzzing with the endorphins. His heart beat quickly, but it slowed, breathing Paul in. Paul was warm underneath him, such a soft body. Paul was no longer feverishly hot, but warm and lovely. John could feel him breathe, Paul’s gentle exhales warm against his ear. Paul’s heartbeat finally slowed, matching John’s rhythm. John made no moment. He could stay here, Paul underneath him, for a good long while. They were both drained of all their energy, completely spent. Paul’s hands were still curled around John’s shoulders, now just resting there. Paul’s legs were bent, splayed on either side of John’s body. 

Paul’s stomach was warm against his, and so was Paul’s chest. Paul’s soft pubic hair brushed against his navel, such a pleasant sensation. The dampness to Paul’s skin dried, but John was able to keep him warm. Paul’s breaths came slow, finally relaxed after being satiated. John had never felt so peaceful. His mind was floating away, as if it were on a cloud, but his body was still grounded on earth, so close to Paul’s 

Paul was larger than a woman, his body more slender than his, but his stature was the same as John’s. They warmed each other in equal part, John not needing to curl himself around a frail broad. It was the way John liked it, him and Paul as equals. The best of mates.

This was a good way to drift off, no battle, his mind simply fading out slowly, it not known when he finally slipped under.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not going down the Stockholm syndrome route dw, Paul just isn’t exactly in the right state of mind.


	22. Chapter 22

John came to just as peacefully as he drifted off.

Paul’s gentle warmth against his, it was a very peaceful feeling. John’s heartbeat had slowed to a crawl. He felt completely serene.

It wasn’t quite the morning, perhaps a small amount of time had passed. Paul was beside him now, John’s arms still snug around him. It seemed he’d passed out as well, overwhelmed by the energy forced out of him.

It all made sense.

Paul was the only one unclothed, John still relatively covered. 

John’s grip had loosened slightly, so he gave Paul a firm squeeze. 

He sighed. John felt so content in this moment. He hoped his life could go on like this. This was what he’d been needing, missing, all of that stuff, but he was complete now, embracing Paul in a dark silent room, perfectly comfortable and warm. He’d taken a bit to put all the pieces together, but now he’d figured it out.

John began to hum bars to himself.

The sound seemed to stir Paul. A smile bloomed on John’s face. Paul’s breath became less consistent as it was during sleep. John’s brow ridge was resting on the top of Paul’s head. Paul’s scent was all around him, but a gentle one, not the strong arousal like before.

John ran his hands through Paul’s still damp hair absentmindedly, soothing him. He loved the softness of the strands, releasing the heat.

Paul had noticed he had woken up, and knew where he was, and remembered what had happened. 

Paul couldn’t feel anything, really. His head was blank as well, unable to come up with anything to think. He had nothing to think about. It felt like static, unsure if it were him in the present moment, or some other body being held. Paul didn’t feel quite grounded in reality. He was drifting again.

“Ah, Paul.” John said, his voice low and soft. There wasn’t much else to say.

Paul didn’t have anything to say either. He didn’t want to speak. He didn’t particularly like that it was John’s body pressed so close to him. Paul wasn’t wearing anything at all, exposed under the duvet. His eyes drifted. He was facing John’s neck, not seeing much besides darkness. 

John could feel Paul’s eyelashes brush against his skin as he blinked, a lovely feeling.

It was a lovely realization that John had the night before. He loved Paul. He really did. Of course he did.

He played at the strands of hair on the back of Paul’s neck. They were delicate here, getting sparser in the back. Women wouldn’t have hair here. The hair was so soft. John liked that their group wore it long. Paul would be lovely regardless, but the haircut softened his features beautifully, soft to the touch, nice and dark. It would be a crime to cut such lovely dark chocolate hair as short as some wanted them to.

“You came to  _ me,  _ y’know.” John smiled, looking upward, recalling the day. It was sunny out, he’d just played a gig with his old mates. He hadn’t seen them for a good long while, but he still had Paul.

John hummed, tracing figures on the bare skin of Paul’s back.

Paul felt numb.

“M’so glad ya did.” John’s hold tightened. “It’s like you’were sent to’me.”

Paul was uneasy by the genuine tone, vulnerable too. It was jarring, no humor in it, no joke in the words.

“You know, I don’ say it much, but I owe it to’ya, Macca. Don’t think I’d ever be where I am it it wasn’t for you making that little decision.”

There was another silence, which John was comfortable in. Paul was heavy, his body weary. John was the one holding him, but at least it was warm. John’s presence was familiar. It was like sleeping tops and tails, back in Paul’s old room. Such a long time ago now. Maybe he was back there again.

John kept humming quietly. Paul was drifting off. If he pretended the months past hadn’t happened, it was the John from before, despite the strange scenario, Paul could find comfort in it.

John spoke up, his voice still strangely soft. It was still gravely. It always was.

“I could use yer help with the ballad. You’re always better with that sorta stuff.”

Paul’s eyes slowly opened, looking at darkness again. He grumbled from his throat.

John’s arms tightened around him at the reply, even in its simplicity. Paul winced, his eyes tightly shut again.

“Speaking so honestly in a song, it’s hard, isn’t it? You do it so easily Paul…” He said. “I’ve always admired’it.”

Paul gave a small hum. He was involved in a conversation of sorts, but it was simply reflex. He didn’t have any thoughts in his head, the words not reaching him.

It was as if John were speaking normally, as if nothing had happened, and they were sitting together in a completely normal context, talking about their music. There wasn’t any suggestiveness in his voice wither. John sounded calm. It was horribly out of place. 

John’s hands were playing upon Paul’s back again, tracing little shapes on the soft skin. John kept murmuring, mainly to himself, just to speak softly.

“It's hard Paul, isn’t it…?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but the story’s coming to a close! I’ve got the final chapters in varying levels of drafting :)


	23. Chapter 23

The morning had come. Paul had slept a dead man’s sleep the night before, all his energy taken from him. He felt well rested, but he felt sickly. Paul felt dirty, all the fluids that had dried on his body. John had fucked him again.

Paul had asked for it. His heart sank in humiliation. Paul had fucking begged him to. John said he wouldn’t _force himself on him_ , but he had found a way around that.

He should’ve known John wouldn’t stop. Paul was too tired to blame himself anymore. He wasn’t truly tired, he’d just woken from a restful sleep...but he was. What was the use of it? Paul had no way out. He felt numb, unable to even stress or put the blame on himself, or John. It was hopeless.

John’s arms were around him, holding him warmly in his sleep. John craved the closeness to him. It seemed like an obsession.

Paul didn’t know what to think. He could begin hitting John, a harsh rousing as revenge for all the pain and misery and manipulation. There would be temporary vindication, attacking him whilst defenseless. But what good would it do? He’d fought John, John had fought him, but Paul always ended up where he started.

Paul’s stirring had roused John. His arms tightened around Paul’s body as Paul’s familiarity came easily to his groggy mind. Paul didn’t stiffen up. What was the point? John wasn’t going to hit him...at least Paul thought he wasn’t.

John’s eyes opened after a few blinks, recognition and adoration growing simultaneously as his eyes met Paul’s.

Now that he was awake, Paul slowly tried to detach himself from the embrace, shifting away. John’s expression grew confused. He leant towards Paul. Before he got a chance to sit up, John’s lips were on his, arms wrapped tighter around the dip of Paul’s back. Paul was uneasy at it, but John didn’t try to delve deeper. The kiss was slightly chaste, despite the lingering and intimacy. Paul still didn’t know what John wanted from him. He seemed sexually fixated on Paul to a manic level, but the kiss didn’t seem blatantly sexual, and that threw him off. It was gentle and slow.

Paul didn’t understand. John wasn’t fucking soft like this. Paul couldn’t claim to know what went on between John and his wife behind closed doors, but he never saw John this fucking soft. He shouldn’t be acting this way to Paul of all people, his mate of seven damn years. Paul didn’t even know if John had ever liked him on a personal level, as an equal, or if Paul was simply a elusive fuck to him, kept around as a pretty face that he would someday garner the courage to take. 

The betrayal had certainly caused Paul an ample amount of grief, doubting any further value he thought he had. Did he truly have talent, or did they all indulge him with the hopes of someday getting him into bed? He had the perfect duality, but it had become such a burden. Paul knew how both men and women saw him, not necessarily needing to be attracted to men in the first place. 

At the very least, out of everyone he’d known, Paul had thought John saw him as an equal. If he’d gotten that so wrong, he didn’t know if he could even trust himself. His whole world view might be backwards. He still remembered what John had said to him that night. John had said he sometimes wondered if Paul _was_ in fact, stupid. He’d taken great amusement in mocking Paul’s appearance, his expressions and mannerisms. He said _no wonder nobody’ll take you seriously!_ He’d said Paul was only good for one thing…

Paul didn’t need further confirmation than that.

John had seemed remorseful, groveling and apologizing for what he’d said, saying he didn’t mean it. Paul still had his doubts. Alcohol lowered inhibitions, causing people to speak their minds. The way John handled his body that night...it was clear what he saw Paul as, deep down.

That night, John had said what he’d said, but in Paul’s half-conscious state the previous night, it was the complete opposite. John held him snugly as Paul’s mind quickly drifted off in its exhaustion, saying things softer than Paul had heard from him. 

He truly couldn’t understand. Paul didn’t know if he needed to. It was too much thinking. If Paul had known the John he thought he knew once, that man had since gone mad. There was nothing more to it than that.

Paul scooted back once John slowly broke the kiss. Paul was unclothed, and didn’t want his body flush against John. John’s hold loosened at that, thankfully not making Paul struggle out of it. John’s arms were still loosely around him.

Paul cringed, and upon opening his eyes, John was still looking at him in his strange way. Too soft, looking as if Paul dazed him.

Paul sat up swiftly. He looked to the window at the daybreak. 

His watch had been taken off sometime during the night. Maybe by him or John, too hot to stand wearing a thing. Paul winced upon sitting up. His ass was sore. It was humiliating to think about, so he blocked it out. The fluid was on Paul’s body, Paul’s own, and John’s dried on his inner thighs. It made his skin crawl, being fucked like a bird, the fluids leaking out of him afterwards. It never got any less unsettling. His body felt filthy.

When Paul’s eyes drifted back to John, he was still lying down, following Paul’s movements lazily with his eyes.

“What?” Paul said flatly. He wasn’t cold, but he wasn’t at ease either. His skin kept crawling as John kept staring calmly. John didn’t respond, but he averted his gaze out of courtesy.

Paul returned his attention to the state of himself. He wanted to take a shower, get clean. He cringed. Paul pushed the duvet off of him, moving to get out of bed. He didn’t like exposing himself to John, knowing in what manner had really been looking at him, but there was no point. John had seen it all before, touched all of it. Paul didn’t feel like he had anything of his own anymore.

“Where’re you going?”

Paul’s movements stalled, the voice taking him out of it. John’s tone was conversational. It was all wrong. It wasn’t a new tone, taunting or seductive. John’s manner in speaking to him in everyday life hadn’t changed at all. It could’ve been an exchange between them last year, both of them clothed, Paul dipping out of the room for a pen, a cigarette, his notebook.

Paul sat slouched on the edge of the bed. He turned his head to the side towards John, but didn’t fully look at him.

“Shower.” Paul said. He didn’t want to speak more words than that.

When he stood up, he heard John sit upright.

“Paul,”

This time his tone was affectionate.

Paul didn’t answer, or look at him. He walked into their shared bath, shutting the door behind him.

~

When Paul opened the door, John had put on underclothes at least. 

John’s head turned to the movement, then had a small smile. He walked towards Paul, easily gravitating to him. John’s arms loosely held him, looking lazily into Paul’s eyes. Paul’s movements stalled, freezing up whenever John’s hands were on him. Paul’s hair was still wet, a towel around him.

Another kiss to his mouth. Paul’s mind drifted again, his eyes not shutting. It felt like he wasn’t on the physical plane, looking down at himself as an observer.

John’s lips were off his as fluidly as he’d made contact. John’s head retreated, back to looking at Paul in that way he did. He stroked the back of Paul’s neck, where the hairs stood on end. Paul’s eyes shut out of instinct, hyper aware of the sensation.

As quickly as he came, John walked past him, his turn in the bath. The door shut behind him

Paul didn’t move for a moment, the taste on his mouth, his head ringing, the wetness on his skin drying in the air of the room.

Paul moved without thinking, not needing to. He’d done this routine hundreds of times before. Showering, drying off, getting clothing from his suitcase, drying himself. It was another day, and there was more to do. Paul wore an everyday suit, buttoning his shirt, putting on his tie. His hands knew what to do from muscle memory.

Once Paul was dressed, John had finished in the bath. Paul’s hands stopped where they were, buttoning his suit jacket. His head didn’t turn.

“Hullo, Paul.”

John’s tone was pleasant. Content in the moment.

Paul’s hands were shakier, but he finished buttoning his suit. He heard John opening his case, dressing himself. Paul didn’t think.

Paul was still for a while, then abruptly stood up. He turned his head to John.

John looked back up at him, always looking at Paul in his way, his features unreadable. He’d put on his dress pants, and was in the process of buttoning up his shirt.

“John, I need to ask ya…”

John’s hand was on his arm, a gentle touch, his attention on him. It was all very strange, even stranger than John’s fixation with fucking him Paul had faced for nearly half a year. It felt surreal, as if it were all a strange dream. This whole thing felt unreal, but Paul had given up the possibility of simply waking up. This was his reality, no way around it.

  
It was gnawing at Paul. Maybe it was useless to try to speak with him. John was here, and he could ask. Paul just didn’t know if he’d get a comprehensible answer. So many times Paul had tried to reason with him, but John’s mind was so far gone. 

Paul just wanted to know if he was still in there, or if John was always capable of this. Maybe it would give him...something, if Paul could know the man he thought he knew existed once, whether he had since died, or just buried deep. He didn’t want to think this John was the same one as before. 

He truly did love John once as his brother. Deep inside him, Paul missed his old friend terribly, and what came with that. John speaking to him as he used to, the familial presence, somebody to lean on. It made the everyday chaos of their fame bearable. He thought he knew John as well as he knew himself, and vice versa. Two sides of the same coin.

It felt once sided now. Paul couldn’t read him at all. He used to believe he could.

“I don’ know what’s happened to ya, John...I swear…” Paul said. “I don’ know what madness has taken ya.”

John’s eyebrows knitted. He looked concerned at Paul’s tone. If you took this moment alone, it really did seem like things were normal again. In a lot of aspects, John was unchanged. The way he spoke to Paul was the same, his appearance was the same. The only difference was that it could slip at any moment. 

It was never the same. The knowledge hung over both of them, the context of their interactions. John had fucked him, he knew what it was to fuck him. The feeling of doing it, the sounds and scent was in his recent memory, there was the context that it would happen again. It clearly _wasn’t_ the same as before. There was the pretense of what they both knew.

Maybe this was natural for John. He’d kept up the normalcy whilst Paul still had no clue what was happening. 

There was the pretense now. He didn’t need to keep the secret from Paul. Things would slip through, John didn’t have to hold his tongue, especially if he kept his voice down, or they were alone. They could be soft like his empty admiration, or biting, clear with his intentions. He could stare, and put his hands on Paul, gently or hungrily, in ways he couldn’t before.

That was how it was before, but once John made that promise to him to stop, he’d kept his distance. Paul noticed it, how he forced his gaze away and tried not to get too close. John was resisting the temptation. They didn’t have their closeness, but John tried to stifle the tension that came with the pretext. 

Maybe it was genuine, truly wanting Paul’s trust back, to fix whatever friendship they had left. Maybe John did care for him, the man he knew inside there somewhere, trying to escape his madness and fixation. 

But he’d gone back to it. The madness had won.

John’s voice was concerned.

“What madness?” He said. “Paul?”

Paul’s expression hardened. He needed an answer from him. He could try and find it, deep inside there.

“John...those things ya said...when you was drunk.”

John’s face went pale.

“Paul, Paul, I’ve apologized...I swear to ya I didn’t-”

Paul squeezed his eyes shut, wincing. He didn’t want to hear this again.

“Don’t fuckin’...grovel.” He said through gritted teeth.

John shut up at that, listening silently. Paul took a moment to speak again.

“I don’ know what you want from me. I dunno…” Paul said, trailing off. “But I gotta know.”

His voice grew stern.

“I don’t care what fuckin’ sickness you’ve got. Tell’me straight up. Don’t you dare fucking spew any bullshit. I don’t want’a fuckin’ hear it.”

Paul looked right at him, his features ridged. John was fully focused on him, questioning, but still concerned.

“Paul?” He said gently.

“Was I ever your friend? Did ya ever have respect for me?” Paul’s voice went dark in resentment, speaking with his teeth. “See me as a person, I mean. Did ya really think I was a good musician?”

His voice got even lower. 

“Or was the only reason ya kept me around..” Paul said cruelly. “...was as a thing to fuckin whack off to?”

John winced at the words.

“...Paul, I…”

Paul stayed silent, his jaw tight.

John’s tension faded, his features softening further as he gazed at him.

“Ah, Paul…” He sighed, Paul’s name gentle in his breath. 

It unsettled Paul, this side of him. 

“I promise ya,” John said. “...you’ve never been that.”

John clung to him again, as if doing so was only natural. It was eerie. 

“Ah, Paul…”

John’s lips were on his skin again. Paul had stiffened up, the innate apprehension taking his body. His eyes were open, his heartbeat quick. Paul was hyperaware at the movement outside their hotel room door.

“Paul...Paul…”

It wasn’t even sexual, the hold. John kept touching him lightly, his back and shoulders. Unnerving.

“Ah Paul…” He finally said. “...I don’t know what I’d be without ya.”

Paul felt John’s nose drag against his neck. His body felt a chill, the familiarity of his embrace. 

“I’ve been bad to ya, but....” John said, remorseful. He was completely convinced of it, his voice genuine. “...you’ve been my dear friend from the day I met ya. Believe me, Paul... it was real. It was gradual, you was my friend long before it grew...promise. You’ve never jus’ been a fuck.” 

John’s voice lowered, becoming more lustful. Paul’s heart rate spiked.

“Oh, but it is good. _Very_ good, Paul.”

Paul nearly whined when John’s teeth grazed his neck. No, no, no, he didn’t want this. The others were outside. John couldn’t. Paul could call to them...they’d help...he could cry out and they’d come. He could...

Luckily, it didn’t seem that John was after that at the moment. Paul’s tension dissipated in relief, his skin feeling clammy. John simply let out a breath, resting his head on Paul’s shoulder, as if the proximity alone relaxed him. He continued with his soft words, his hands lightly playing upon Paul’s back.

“I’d admire ya even without yer pretty face, believe me.”

John paused his movements stalling. His head had since risen from Paul’s shoulder.

“You’re brilliant...Paul.” John said reverently, wonder in his voice. “Brilliant musician.”

His tone became humorous.

“You was the only one to notice my chords, wasn’t it?” 

He gave a small laugh, but his voice turned back serious. It was uncanny, how clearly he was speaking. It wasn’t familiar.

“...yer the best thing I’ve gotten.”

There was a silence where John was content. Paul forced himself to speak. His body was still ridged.

“But why then…?” Paul said in a small voice. “You could’a let me be. If you truly was my friend, you’d not do this.”

John lifted his head a bit.

“Oh…” John said quietly. His eyebrows were furrowed.

“You don’t understand, Paul…” he said . “I don’t know why you hate’it...Why, Paul...?”

Frustration surged inside of him. No matter what he said, John would never put it together. Paul couldn’t even understand why. John wasn’t stupid. He was one of the smartest men he knew, on par with himself. It was clear what was wrong, but John was blinded. It was impossible. 

John had made his remorse for that one night clear. He was in deep misery at what he’d done, hurting Paul, and saying such cruel things. But when it came to anything else...he just couldn’t get it through his head. It didn’t matter if he was gentle or forced pleasure out of him! Paul would never...ever want it!

“I’ll be good to’ya.” John said softly. “I promise. I can give ya anything you ask’for. It’ll be good...the two of us. It’s right, Paul…”

John gave him a final firm squeeze. 

“Don’ leave me.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, to be clear, if I ever mention “wrongness” or “sickness”, it's because of the obsession, not because Paul’s a dude. There is that aspect, especially considering that time period, but it’s not something I’m going to focus on. Personally, the dynamic between the two of them in general is more interesting to me, and in the case of the story, John’s mental state and justifications.


	24. Chapter 24

John loved fucking women...but as of late...he just didn’t feel the need to. He used to have them so often, but now it couldn’t compare. It was  _ Paul _ he wanted under him, holding him tight.

Girls were soft and delicate and fuckable, but they weren’t Paul. Paul had all the beauty these women did, if not much more. Paul had his masculine characteristics too, blending seamlessly with his feminine beauty. Paul could never pass for a woman, but John didn’t need a woman. All he wanted was Paul.

He’d be happy fucking no one else but Paul until the day he died. John liked breasts, sure, but Paul’s chest was soft and lovely, despite it being clear it was a man’s. Paul had soft skin and a gentle softness to his body that John could grab onto. It wasn’t pliant as a woman’s would be, but perhaps it was better that way. Women bruised so easily, but Paul didn’t. John didn’t need to hold back his love and passion in worry that he’d hurt him. Paul could take what a woman couldn’t, the true intensity of John’s desire.

With sleeping around, there was the risk of disease, illegitimate children to pay off, delusional broads thinking they were together now. It simply wasn’t worth it. Why would he need to seek out women to experience the pleasure of sex? Paul was always with him, travelling with him. Paul wasn’t a broad he was lugging around for that one reason either. Paul was his partner. Paul was invaluable.

Yes...there was nothing else to look for. He’d found it in Paul.

Their tour had come to an end. They had a couple weeks to record the soundtrack before filming for their first movie would begin. They still were in the process of that, writing the last few as well.

John was in the studio alone. The rest of them had since gone off.

He sat at the control panel, all of those dials and such. George Martin knew better than he did, the technical stuff. John knew guitars better. He liked experimenting with them, trying to get different sounds out of them.

He had his notebook out. John had been musing over the tune he had in his head, the ballad. He didn’t write many of them, these sentimental songs. John didn’t like exposing himself. It came easier to Paul. He didn’t even know where Paul got it from. Paul was amourous, he supposed, but John wondered if he was capable of committing to the deep sorts of love he wrote about.

John felt it though. That deep, all-encompassing feeling. Paul’s ballads made sense to him, coming from that sweet, lovely voice. He used to believe it didn’t exist, but it did. He felt it for Paul. Maddeningly so. It had been real. Nothing felt quite like this. He adored Paul, he wanted to be inside of Paul, and Paul inside him, blurring the lines of themselves. Paul truly was his other half, something he couldn’t sustain himself without, his lifeblood. He’d kill for Paul, and he’d die for Paul. 

He wanted to capture it, put it in a melody. It was perfectly fitting too, that Paul was the one who would help him with it. A part of him, and a part of Paul in the music, brought to life through both their minds. Their children. It was as it should be. He didn’t know what he’d be without Paul.

Paul was younger than him by a year and eight months, and that was long enough to wait.

A while ago, Paul had told him that he’d nearly died at birth. Paul’s mother was unsure if he’d make it, so she had prayed, and had Paul baptized. 

Evidently, he had ended up pulling through, not willing to give up his one chance at life.  _ That was Paul, wasn’t it?  _ John smiled to himself. He had things he wanted to, and he was going to do them. He’d live a good long while, not going until he was truly satisfied.

He was glad Paul had made it. He was glad Paul was born.

  
  


_ If I trust in you _

_ Oh please _

_ Don't run and hide _

_ If I love you too _

_ Oh please _

_ 'Cause I couldn't stand the pain _

_ And I _

_ Would be sad _

_ If our old love was in vain _

  
  


John smiled at the words. They were simple, but clear. Obviously, he couldn’t blatantly sing Paul’s name, profess his adoration with a melody behind it, and put it on a record. Paul wouldn’t play bass for that track.

John got the melody in his head first. It was funny. Usually Paul worked that way, thinking of words later. John would often help him with lyrics. He was good at that.

Warmth bloomed within him. Beautiful melodies would simply come to Paul. John didn’t know how. Paul would dream of them, and keep them in his head, pouring them from his lips. Neither of them read music, really, but it was within Paul, coming through whichever instrument he used. Paul’s delicate fingers, playing the chords with ease, or using a piano. It was so effortless, the way he played. It was beautiful.

John tried to think of more, but it was difficult. Paul really was better at the sentimental stuff, even if it wasn’t something he felt. Paul knew the concept of it, and could make a song beautiful in that way. John had more trouble exposing himself like this. It had to be personal. He got a bit of embarrassment writing it down.

  
  


~

  
  


They had a few songs they were still working on. Paul and him stayed back at their London flat to finish up with the writing.

True to his word, John never forced himself on Paul. He hadn’t taken him since their last week of the tour, when Paul had the aphrodisiac. Paul hadn’t asked for it, so he didn’t come onto him.

Paul was on edge, but John had reaffirmed his promise. Paul still seemed wary. Thankfully, he wasn’t timid during their writing sessions anymore. Especially with the deadline looming, Paul wanted their new record to be up to his standards. John didn’t hold any power over his head. He wanted Paul on equal footing, both of them writing together, as it always should be.

Paul still wouldn’t drink with him. That was fair enough. Besides, John didn’t need him to drink, and he truly meant it when he said he’d never put Paul to sleep again. They smoked together, and worked together, and that was enough.

Luckily, Paul didn’t hold firm to his strange rule of sitting so far apart. It hurt John, how Paul wouldn’t even reach for their book until John leant back in his seat. 

They were on the floor, notes around them, crumpled up instruments, cigs and a matchbox. It was their makeshift workspace, with them wherever they went. They weren’t eye to eye, but it was close enough, and it didn’t seem so unnatural. It was less playful, but it did get to this productive type of session before, completely set on working through a tune, Paul and him together, each other’s minds filling the gaps.

During these times, it seemed that Paul had regained some sort of ease, and it got better the longer John stuck to his word. Paul didn’t have to fear being alone with him, that John would take advantage of the situation. Paul shouldn’t fear it.  _ Never again.  _ John had promised. If Paul didn’t want it, he wouldn’t push.

Paul did tend to skew towards fluff with his topics. John used to give him grief about it, but Paul truly was good when it came to his bits. After what happened that one night, he was more hesitant to push too much against it. He didn’t want Paul to think he really thought his little love songs were pointless. They weren’t. Paul’s ballads only made his heart grow, how lovely his voice was as it slowed, conveying such sweet longing of which John had never seen him have.

“I’ve been working on this one,” John said. He flipped to the page in his notes where he’d jotted down some things the day before, those simple lyrics. “It’s a ballad...you’re better with those I’think.”

Paul took the book from him, looking it over. His cigarette was held between his teeth, the smoke slowly seeping from the end. Paul took it in his hand, holding the notebook higher.

“S’good. You’ve got a tune?”   
  


“Yeah.” John said. He’d known it for a while. His acoustic was handy beside him, and he played the melody for Paul.

“That’s the gist of’t. Had trouble with the words.” John said. He smiled at Paul humorously. “Funny that. S’the other way around in’t it? Usually.”

Paul gave a nod, looking at the words. He took a puff from his cigarette. John watched as he exhaled the smoke from his nose, how Paul’s lips closed around it. He wasn’t even meaning to, but he was driving John mad.

He wanted to fuck that mouth. He wanted to fuck it and suck those lips into his. He wanted to fuck Paul until he couldn’t do much else than cry out and groan the ugliest sounds. He wanted to fist Paul’s dick until he couldn’t cum anymore. He wanted to put his mouth everywhere on Paul’s body, find every little pleasurable spot. He’d fuck Paul good and proper, the way nobody else could. He wanted to love him and fuck him and make him raw with sensation. He wanted-

“What’re you trying to write?”

“Hm?”

“The type, I mean. S’ a ballad, yeah, but there’s different kinds, y’know. S’like a story really.”

“Ah.” 

John thought for a moment as Paul’s eyes kept scanning the notes. Probably thinking of things to add.

“New love, I think.” John said.

Paul squinted at the last bit. 

“Ey, it says  _ old love _ here, see?” Paul pointed to the line with his pen. “... _ out old love was in vain. _ Doesn’t make much sense if that’s what you’re going for.”

John nodded.

“Well, either way, I suppose.”

“So the song’s sort of askin’ things of a girl, and then appealin’ to her... _ Cause I couldn't stand the pain,  _ yeah?”

“Right. Yes.” John said. “Its a plea type thing I suppose. She’s his new love...an’ it was unknown before.”

“First love type thing?”

“Er…” John thought to himself. “No, not first...well a different sort, so you. Deeper, like.”

Paul nodded.

“Tha’s good.”

Paul held the cigarette in his lips, then began jotting down his ideas.

Paul handed the notebook back for him to look over. Paul had crossed out the  _ old,  _ and written  _ new,  _ now making it  _ If our new love was in vain.  _ It sounded more natural like that, he was right.

John couldn't help but think of how lovely Paul’s handwriting was. Especially beside his, it was so fluid and delicate. Paul didn’t write in a painstakingly neat way many women did, but his script was still so graceful, so distinctive. John adored it.

Paul had written a few more verses on the top, playing off what John had said.

  
  


_ I've been in love before _

_ And I found that love was more _

_ Than just holding hands _

_ If I give my heart to you _

_ I must be sure _

_ From the very start _

_ That you would love me more than her _

  
  


Paul had also added  _ Don’t hurt my pride like her,  _ after the second  _ Oh please. _

John smiled to himself. Paul was a good lyricist for these types of songs. He’d changed the song’s nature a bit, but it still rang true to John’s original intent.  _...I’ve been in love before, and I found that love was more, than just holding hands. _

~

They didn’t finish the song that day, but they eventually tied up all their loose ends. It wasn’t long before they were recording the soundtrack with the others.

It was quite mesmerizing. Paul was face to face with him, his lips moving as he harmonized with John, singing words John had written for him, and replying with his own.

  
  
  
  



	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's day :) as of now all chapters are drafted.

It had been another day of recording. It was just John and Paul now, wrapping up in the studio.

Being the writers, they had the final say for a lot of things, (though sadly not their idea to end their “a Hard Day’s Night” with the sound of a toilet flushing).

They were listening back the tapes they recorded that day. George Martin had since gone home, and so had the other two. There was a sort of peacefulness being the last ones in the studio, at least it used to be. Just the two of them finalizing their craft, the sense of accomplishment, safe guarded from the frantic press and mad fans once they were inside. They weren’t to be disturbed in the studio, no bringing their girls round even. The studio had one purpose, and that was their work.

Paul had his arms braced at the edge of the controls, looking down at them lazily. John was seated, playing the tapes back.

“That take was good.” Paul said simply.

“Hm? Take seven…?”

“Yeah.”

John fiddled with the dial, playing it back. They both experimented with the tuning, until it sounded the best to them. Then, they listened to the whole thing through, starting with their opening chord. They were pretty proud of that in particular.

John was smiling to himself as it ended.

“It’ll be a hit, Paul.”

“Yeah.” Paul conferred.

John’s head turned to look at him, the grin intact.

“We’re brilliant, aren’t we?” He said. “Just brilliant. The two of us.”

Paul didn’t like looking John directly in the eye. His shoulders hardened, averting his gaze, though keeping it neutral.

“Yes.” Paul said.

John got to his feet, still eyeing Paul with that content expression. Paul’s eyes quickly darted back to him at the moment. John was still too close. Any other context, it would be only a friendly expression. That’s what Paul had thought for seven years.

Paul shifted a touch away, though trying to mask any discomfort. John could very well not have any ulterior motives. Disregarding the night after the dinner, John had more or less kept to his word to leave him be. Besides that, John hadn’t had his way with him in nearly two months. It was like that night hadn’t even happened, maybe a bad dream. Paul tended to get relatively less tense around John the longer the stretches of peace went on, less concerned things would happen when he least expected it. Still, the tension never really went away.

Paul made a move to turn, but John’s hand wrapped around his upper arm. Paul’s gaze shot back to him, definitely tense now.

“Paul…”

John’s voice was low. The tone he used to seduce women. It did nothing of the sort for Paul. Paul knew that look in his eye, that tone of voice.

Paul’s heart rate spiked. He was damn well right to be tense. Paul tried to jerk his arm out, but John’s grip tightened.

Paul’s body shook. He wanted to tell John off, but he couldn’t manage to get the words out. Paul didn’t want to be afraid. He didn’t feel afraid. If anything, he wanted to lash out...but he wasn’t in control of his reactions. His body froze up regardless of what his mind thought, knowing as well what John wanted to do. There was a chill throughout him.

“Paul…”

John pulled him closer, and Paul felt his back press against the nearby wall, John’s weight on him, keeping him there. Paul couldn't bring himself to move, frozen still. John’s mouth was on his neck, the wetness and heat of it, kissing and nipping at his skin. Paul’s heart rate quickened, his breaths becoming shallow.

Paul wanted to hit him, throw him off, fight back. He could’ve months back, fully capable of overpowering John if he wanted to, but at this point, Paul’s body would just freeze up. Paul _had_ fought against John, many times. It did no good, anyhow. He’d always wind up right where he started.

John’s hand crept in between their bodies. Paul’s teeth gritted and a shot went through him as John cupped his prick. John’s hand there became firmer, squeezing it through Paul’s trousers. Paul’s chest was consumed by the sinking feeling, his breaths stalling, his mind going a mile a minute. John was stroking him now, slowly but firmly. Paul’s legs felt weaker, but John’s weight pressed him to the wall, keeping him upright, as he coaxed Paul’s stance wider.

“Paul...c’mon beauty. Get ‘hard for me. Wanna see’it…”

Paul felt himself shaking. It was the same over and over again. His breaths came harder as Paul felt the familiar stirring in his abdomen. The sensations were making pleasure buzz, even if he didn’t want it. Paul was getting hard again, his prick waking up. He would always get hard given stimulation there. Paul would get hard, and John always got what he wanted.  
  


John seemed delighted, quite pleased with it responding to his touch, as he always was. He liked Paul getting hard by his hand, it gave him a thrill, the bastard. Maybe he saw it as reciprocation, despite Paul wishing the opposite. John’s breath was on Paul’s neck, breathing him in.

“Ah, Paul...m’lovely Macca darlin’...c’mon.”

Paul shifted his stance, tremors of discomfort and uneasiness prickling up his abdomen in accordance with the pleasure. He kept hardening, feeling himself swell as John’s hand stroked him.

Paul kept shaking, his hips instinctively, subconsciously trying to shift away, but he was pressed firm against the wall. John’s face was buried in his neck, unable to see his facial expression, the paleness. He must misconstrue Paul’s short breaths as ones of arousal, Paul’s movements as ones of reciprocation. John’s body weight was on him, John’s scent around him. It was getting harder to breath.

“Feel’s good, doesn’t it? C’mon beauty…”

John was speaking sweetly, though with the clear desire, impassioned, coming from low in his throat. It wasn’t to demean Paul, or humiliate him. It was all genuine, as if speaking to a reciprotice lover. That made it all the more jarring, making Paul’s hair stand on end. 

Paul had the ability to move for a brief second, his hand shooting to grab John’s shoulder, curling tight around it. Paul’s attempt was to push him away, throw John off him, but Paul couldn’t find the strength, the hand stroking him firmly, the hot breath on his neck. His heart kept sinking. He knew what was coming, and so did his body. He knew what John wanted.

John took the grip as reciprocation. He gave Paul’s body a quick squeeze of affection, giddy with it. John got so much enjoyment with anything Paul gave him. Dizziness overcame Paul, like the world had gone mad.

John’s attention shifted to his mouth. He quickly took Paul’s bottom lip in his teeth, pulling it, delving deeper, savoring Paul as if he were a delicious meal.

  
John’s mouth was back on Paul’s neck as soon as it left, whispering words of admiration. Time felt like a blur to Paul, spinning. He felt unbalanced, as if he’d taken one too many uppers. Paul felt as if he was at risk of leaving his body, looking in as a spectator. It seemed to be a common effect he got when John’s hands were on him. As if he wasn’t there. Escaping the moment. It wasn’t happening.

“Ah Paul...c’mon baby. M’beauty...c’mon…”

The hand on his prick gave it a particularly harsh squeeze through his trousers, making Paul’s heart jump. He was shot back into the present moment, his heart beating even quicker. Paul felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was gasping in breaths. Paul felt like he was about to die.

John finally noticed something amiss at that. His movements quickly stopped, his head raising in concern. His expression worsened with worry at seeing Paul’s face.

Paul sucked in a breath, then let it out in a shout, finally finding his voice.

“ _Stop! Stop!_ ” Paul shrieked, not caring if it sounded pathetic, or if his voice was shaky. “ _Don’t, John!_ ”

John’s body tensed up further. His weight was off Paul, his hands moving off him.

“Paul?” He said, worried, as if he was truly taken by surprise.

Paul was able to regain his strength, and he threw John off. John didn’t resist, quickly moving back away from him.

Paul’s arms curled around himself, solidifying his body, letting the shakes course through him. He was shivering as the iciness left his body, regaining sensation. His head felt heavy, the erection rubbed out of him a nagging annoyance, the stirring within it, worsening his mental state.

“ _Don’ touch me! Don’ touch me, John!_ ” Paul shot out. His backed up cries finally coming out in bursts.

“M’sorry, Paul.” John said, afraid even. His face was pale as well.

There was guilt in his voice, as if he overstepped. It made no sense. _Since when did he care?_ He seemed afraid by the reaction, as shaken as Paul was once seeing it.

Paul’s lips tightened as he tried to regain his level headedness.

“Thought ya-” John said. “...m’sorry, Paul!”

Paul looked at him, his body tense, his eyes wide and his teeth gritted. He didn’t care what John had to say. He couldn’t come close to understanding John’s ideas of right and wrong. It seemed to change at the drop of a hat. It was as if there were multiple people living inside of him, with different ideas of it. Paul only wanted his friend. The man he loved once as a brother.

John was close to him again, and Paul winced, his eyes squeezing shut. John’s hands were light on his shoulders, attempting to soothe him. Paul’s heart was beating quickly, the touch doing more harm than good. John held him closer, a careful embrace. He stroked his hand through Paul’s hair, trying to ease the tension there as well.

“I won’t, Paul. M’sorry…”


	26. Chapter 26

  
  


It had happened again. Paul knew this feeling.

He didn’t know when John could’ve done it. Paul hadn’t had a single drink since coming back to the flat. The only thing he’d eaten was the fish and chips they’d ordered back at the studio, and that was a few hours back.

Paul couldn’t deal with it anymore. How would he know whether his food was safe or not? Would he have to simply be on constant guard? It was hopeless. Paul wouldn’t be able to relax anymore. He’d have to always worry about John hovering over his shoulder. That was no way to live. John would always get what he wanted in the end, all the while under the guise of not “forcing himself” on Paul.

Paul felt the heat creeping over his body. It started slow, like it did before. 

It would feel like nothing at first, then a slight heat. Paul’s face would begin to feel hot, his cheeks flushing. Then, his necktie would be too tight. Paul’s breaths would get shorter. Finally, the lust would begin to build. It would build and build, becoming unbearable. Paul would be completely consumed by the burning. He would need relief more than he needed air. He would do anything, absolutely anything, to get it, no matter what it took. 

That was John’s strategy, his justification for fucking Paul. The drug would go into effect, and John would be around. John slept at night, knowing he only did it once Paul was crying out for John to help him. Paul couldn’t satiate himself on his own. Paul’s movements would be too erratic, his strength wouldn’t be enough. As Paul tried to pleasure himself, the pleasure would overwhelm his body, making it impossible to bring himself to orgasm. Paul could rut against the covers uselessly, trying and failing again and again to find release, or he could cry out for John to help him, conveniently nearby, waiting for that very ask.

John had known when to come to his room, knowing when the drug would take effect. 

Paul was sitting hunched over on his bed, his weight braced on his arms, breathing heavily. He’d unbuttoned his dress shirt, the ends of his hair damp. He was already painfully erect, the need building much quicker than it ever would naturally. Paul hadn’t even touched it yet, but it created a tent in his trousers, straining against the thick fabric. Paul was still trying to come to terms with the inevitable. He knew what this was.

John was in the doorway, watching him wordlessly, his hand on the doorframe. Paul could only see him from the corner of his eye, not wanting to make the effort to shift his gaze. Paul made a sound of exasperation.

“Do’ya need anything, Paul?”

  
John’s voice was soft. It wasn’t a teasing tone at least, poking fun at his situation. But John knew damn well what he needed.

Paul bowed his head. It was hopeless. He knew what was coming, his arousal not even at its highest point. He shifted his hips. The strain was becoming increasingly more painful. He gritted his teeth.

Paul felt John come closer, trying to ease his presence to Paul. He tentatively reached out a hand, running a comforting stroke down Paul’s shoulder. A gesture to soothe him.

The entire area lit up. Paul nearly groaned at the sensation, arousal rushing through him at the touch of another person. Paul arched his back into it. It didn’t matter who it was, Paul wanted hands on him. His prick throbbed at the very idea. Paul wanted to cum. He wanted hands on him, he wanted people to stroke him, and touch him, and pleasure him until he couldn’t think of anything else. Paul needed it, to be brought to orgasm over and over. He was too weak to do it himself, but he needed it so badly. 

It didn’t matter who it was. It could be the ugliest thing on earth pleasuring him, a group of burly men, but Paul didn’t care as long as his body was adored. Nothing else mattered. He needed help, and John was here, and willing. Suppose that’s what John’s intention was.

John’s arms wrapped around him in an embrace. It was a gentle one, not even sexual in nature, but even that was too much. Paul shook with the sensation. Paul pressed even harder back into the hold. Yes. A warm body pressed against him. Nothing else mattered. Paul began to move his hips. John was a living, breathing thing to rut against, and he was holding Paul tightly. Paul held tightly back, his arms around John’s torso, and began to rut against him. Paul’s breaths and short groans were in John’s ear, and hot against his neck.

Paul felt John’s body stiffen. Maybe from surprise, but also from lust. Paul was giving him what he wanted on a silver platter, taking the initiative. John quickly got over it once he processed it, and was encouraging Paul with enthusiasm, leaning back into him with equal desire. Paul’s erection was restrained by his trousers, but the stress was even pleasurable in its intensity, and Paul got sick pleasure from ignoring it. (Not that he could divert attention from the rutting even if he wanted to).

“You poor thing, Macca…” John was saying under his breath. “Terribly needy...s’alright...s’alright...m’here…”

John’s words angered Paul in the depths of his cloudy mind. It was John’s fucking fault he was like this, speaking to him as if it wasn’t his doing.

Paul found the strength and leant forward, overpowering him, pushing John to his back with his body weight. Paul was on top of him now, rutting down against him, breathing harshly and angrily in his shallow breaths. His nose grazed against the side of John’s face, Paul’s body weight pressing down atop him, keeping him there to rut against. Paul didn’t like the scent, it was nowhere near feminine, but John was a body at the very least. Paul didn’t have the ability to be picky. John wasn’t a woman, nowhere near it, but he was warm and breathing and willing, underneath him.

Paul didn’t have the strength or want to lift himself, so he simply ground his hips against the warm body beneath him.

Paul’s forcefulness though, only seemed to aid in John’s enjoyment. He groaned in return, relishing every bit of attention Paul gave him. His hands found Paul’s head, gripping it. John brought it to his, guiding Paul’s mouth closer. Upon contact, Paul’s instinct was to reciprocate, a mouth against his. It was hot, and wanting, and it didn’t matter who it was. Paul kissed back hungrily, and John eagerly matched it.

Deep down, he knew he was giving John just what he wanted, indulging him. He knew John got gratification from Paul simply using him for pleasure. Paul couldn’t care about the specifics. His prick was more important.

John groaned Paul’s name into his mouth, his hands tangling in his damp hair, kissing Paul harder.

Paul’s movements got harsher, but the closer he got to release, the more control he lost. His movements became less eloquent, losing his pace. It was hopeless. Paul couldn’t push through, and have his release. It only frustrated him more, unable to get what he wanted by his own hand.

“ _ Johnny…” _ Paul cried out of frustration, his harshness becoming desperation. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t do it. Only John could help him, take the pain away.

Paul had the upper hand, his weight on John, but John had more strength in the moment. 

John pushed Paul forward, raising them both to a seat. Upon seeing him, John’s hands went to the back of Paul’s head, kissing him again harshly out of impulse. Paul’s hands wandered over the ones gripping him, a slight shift of his hips from confusion. They knew what they needed, and moved separately from Paul, out of instinct.  _ C’mon Paul. Thrust. Thrust and fuck her, then you’ll cum. Find the tight passage to fuck, it must be about. That’s what you’re erect for. Find the cunt, and fuck into it. Then you’ll cum, and your purpose will be fulfilled. Find it, thrust, fuck, cum, release, cum deep inside. You’re a man Paul. Breed her. _

John pulled away, gazing into Paul’s eyes. Such beautiful eyes they were. They were foggy now, the pupils blown, looking back at John with intensity. It was a good look for him. The aphrodisiac was doing its job. John took a moment to look over Paul’s beautiful features, his cheeks flushed and lips parted. There was a look of frustration and need on his face, the skin dampening. John would please him. Paul could always count on him for that.

“Ah, Paul…”

The words wanted to come out. John wanted to tell Paul how dear he was to him. That John loved him, unlike anything he’d loved before. There were so many things he wanted to say to Paul. He adored him so much. Paul meant so much to him. Truly, Paul was everything to him.

...but the moment wasn’t right. It would only fall on deaf ears. Paul was nothing but pure lust and need, overwhelmed by the aphrodisiac. John’s words wouldn’t reach his mind, and by the time it was over, Paul would be too exhausted. 

No. It had to be a truly special moment, perhaps one where Paul finally accepted him of his own free will. A more quiet moment.

There was lust to John’s love, passion, desire, hunger, and need. It was true that he wanted Paul on a carnal level. Wanted to fuck him, fuck Paul for days upon weeks, until he could fuck no more, the two of them lying together in complete exhaustion. Every little thing about him drove John mad, aroused him immeasurably, even something as small as a movement, a sound from Paul’s lips. Paul was a beauty in every sense of the word, and the beauty was irresistible. John desired him unlike anything he’d desired before, in a deeply sexual way.

But it was beyond that too, the Paul who was his partner, his friend, his brother. Something beyond the lust and passion. Paul was the other half of his mind as well. There would never be a better fit, completing him perfectly. 

John wanted to lay with him. Slow, quiet, every touch lingering. Maybe it was a fantasy, but it had to come to fruition. He knew his connection to Paul was deep. It must be predestined, written in the stars. It was too much to be anything less. They were fated to meet, and their partnership had made them rich. A perfect combination.

There would come a time when Paul would accept him, and John would enter him. It would be something beyond solely lust or hunger, a brief moment where nothing in the universe existed except for the two of them, in union. It wasn’t just sex, the animalistic urge to rub parts until the endorphin rush was met. John would be lost within Paul, and Paul within him. He would feel nothing else. Time would stand still, eye to eye with each other, a perfect mirror image. It would be a manifestation of love, only for the two of them, shutting the world out. Only then, would the words come from him, and Paul would know they were true.

John’s attention moved to the state of Paul’s arousal. He was here, and he would help him.

John undid Paul’s fly, releasing the strain. He felt Paul give a breath of relief. He tugged Paul’s briefs lower, then finally encircled Paul’s desperate, heated shaft in his hand.

“Oh, _yes,_ _Johnny, yes…!_ ”

The affirmations were music to John’s ears. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to pleasure Paul. That’s what John was made for. Paul wasn’t put on this earth only for his benefit, it was a two-way deal. John was born to adore him, as Paul was born to accept the pleasure, and bring meaning to his life. John was born to admire and please him, his goddess.

He began to toss Paul off in the consistent way Paul couldn’t, but needed badly. Paul’s hips tried to move in pace, making short little jerks, but unable to keep it. Luckily, John could pick up the slack. John’s eyes kept flitting from Paul’s face to his pick, deeply enjoying the pleasure in his expression, Paul’s happy little gasps, his eyelids fluttering, his cheeks flushed. Paul’s pretty lips made the “ooh” of pleasure, his eyebrows drawing. John’s heart kept skipping beats of excitement, adoring every one of Paul’s reactions. Nothing excited him the way Paul did.

Paul’s shuddering breaths were liquid honey to his ears. He was in constant awe of Paul’s beauty, and it was especially captivating, his facial features consumed by sex. Paul was by no means innocent, very much less inexperienced, but he reacted to pleasure each time as something new and exciting, never getting tired of the rush. Paul was always like this, always so full of life. John adored it. It was mesmerizing. It made his life brighter.

If Paul was overtaken quick by a moan, or a cry, none of it stifled, the sound shot straight to John’s dick. It was beyond belief, what Paul did to him. Paul couldn’t be real. No man alive should have a voice like that...or look like that, really.

Furthermore, was the prick in his hand. John’s eyes flitted down to it. He was tossing it off at the quick pace Paul needed, the sweet swelled head disappearing and reappearing in his fist. It made it all the better, knowing it was  _ his _ fist. John was the one pleasuring him. John loved the smoothness of the delicate skin there, covering such a stiff object, the rubbery head, the slight give. On the aphrodisiac, it would get desperate near immediately, red and hard and swollen, the precum leaking steadily from Paul’s pretty slit. John loved the way it leaked, beading by the entrance, as if Paul was getting wet like a bird. It was a delicious taste too. John loved taking the thing in his mouth, the perfect size.

“Oh, Johnny...Oh, Johnny... _ please...yes… _ ”

Paul’s voice was small and choked. As fun as it would be to tease Paul, stopping the moment before he reached orgasm, John knew it would be cruel to do so considering his predicament. It was John’s doing, and it was his responsibility to give him relief.

It was fun when he used to edge Paul. He hadn’t for a good while. Paul would be so reluctant to admit any pleasure John gave him, so John enjoyed toying with him because of it. He would pull back the last minute, make Paul’s face redden. Paul would be forced to plead for it, too ashamed to touch himself and give John a show. 

Paul would always cum in the end. John would make sure of it. He loved watching Paul cum. It might even be his favorite part. Paul’s orgasm was truly a beautiful thing. All those women were lucky to experience it. The way Paul’s body tensed, the way he cried, the way the fluid escaped his slit. His mouth would open in a silent shout, or a deep guttural moan. John could nearly feel the pleasure and relief from him. John was lucky to give him that.

John was able to rub the orgasm out of him, and Paul did cry out. It was much less restrained on the aphrodisiac, shame dissipating, tearing through him more violently than it would otherwise. Paul began to ejaculate, the fluid shooting onto John’s clothing. Shivers and thrills went through his body at it. He could feel Paul’s sounds vibrating through himself, making his head light, beautifully loud. Paul’s head was tilted backward, his back arching. His lower back tensed, and his lovely hands clenched into fists. John’s opposite hand held Paul by the head. John leant forward and hissed Paul’s face. He kissed Paul’s neck and his sweet lips.

He gazed adoringly at Paul. Paul’s own eyes were rolled upwards, in temporary bliss and relief. Paul’s mouth was wide in a smile, catching his breath.

John could tell when the relief began to fade, the aphrodisiac inevitably taking a hold back on him. Before Paul’s features got the chance to become distraught, John quickly spoke.

“S’alright, Paul. I know it’s comin’ back, but m’here. M’gonna make’it better.”

Paul bit his tongue, the worry spreading in his eyes, his heart beating faster.

John lowered his head, hovering over Paul’s regrowing arousal.

Paul knew his arousal was building again. He had just cum, but he was beginning to feel it stir, and he knew the desperation would once again come.

“What a lovely thing…”John murmured to himself, under his breath.

John was waiting, as if he were fucking admiring it. Paul was staring forward, into space, unable to shift his attention, his mind only on his prick. Paul could feel John’s hot breaths landing on his already painful arousal. It was torture.

Paul couldn’t think much, acting on impulse. His hips moved on their own, trying to find something to fuck into. He was lightheaded. He gave a shout of frustration.

His hands were able to find John’s head, and he gripped it hard, feeling the hair on his fingers. He yanked it toward him, trying to find the target, but he found himself rutting against John’s cheek.

God, good enough. It was soft skin against his erection, and warm. The satisfaction was only a second. Paul’s eyes rolled upward, trying to find the passage. He only rutted more jerkily, unable to compose himself, or divert attention.

The fucker giggled. John seemed to be getting a kick out of this.

“C’mon baby, you can fuck my mouth. C’mon.” John teased. He opened his mouth wide, grinning up at Paul, trying to egg him on.

Paul’s eyebrows furrowed, getting irritated. His teeth gritted, and he tried to push himself in. His movements were still erratic, unreliable.

John took a hold of his prick, guiding it into his mouth. Paul nearly cried out obscenely when John’s fingers grazed his shaft, and he did once his needy tip met with the warmth and wetness of a wanting mouth. Paul had no hesitation in pushing in harshly, shrieking expletives. Immediately, he was fucking into it without abandon.

He wasn’t gentle with it either, fucking into that mouth. John deserved it, the fucker. It was his damn fault Paul had gotten to this point, and he could reap the benefits.

But it seemed like if anything, John was enjoying the roughness, still giggling and groaning around the thick shaft fucking roughly into his throat, encouraging Paul to fuck even harder. The fucker.

Oh hell, if this wasn’t damn satisfying. Paul’s vision blurred, his movements jerky and uninhibited. He forced John’s head back and forth, pushing it down, and yanking it up, his hips moving as quick as they could. God, it was almost like fucking a cunt, hot and wet and tight. Paul never even got to fuck women’s mouths like this, not even the whores. They were always too delicate. At the very fucking least John was taking responsibility.

Pleasure bloomed all throughout Paul’s hips, the thill and heat taking his entire abdomen.

“Oh yes.” Paul panted. He didn’t even process the words, slipping out as easily as his breaths. “God oh fuckin-Oh baby _...oh ffuck, god fuck… _ ”

Paul keeled over, clutching John’s head flush to himself as his hips ground deep against his mouth. He kept fucking jerky thrusts into the welcoming passage.

“God  _ fuckin’ _ ...oh  _ baby _ , yeah baby _...please… _ ”

Paul gave a strained strangled cry. His hips began to weaken. His thrusts kept getting more erratic, becoming less reliable. Paul was almost there. He needed...he needed to keep pace to finish. He tried with all his might to focus. Oh god...

Mercifully, John’s hands were on his hips, aiding in his thrusts. Paul nearly sobbed in relief. John picked up the slack, taking Paul deeper, pushing his hips forward. He could feel John’s hands feeling him up, squeezing at the flesh of his hips, curling around his ass. If anything, it spurred Paul on, more sensations, adoring his body, hands on him. Paul’s thrusts got rougher and harder. John gagged on him, but that only made him encourage Paul deeper, aid him in fucking harder, his lips tight around Paul’s shaft, teasing at him with his tongue. It was becoming too much.

Before he knew what took him, Paul was cumming hard. He quite near screamed. He kept fucking John’s throat, riding through it. John’s nose was flush against his soft pubic hair, his nose wrinkling. He looked to be enjoying it, swallowing every drop of fluid Paul released. Disgusting. In Paul’s haze he recognized the depravity of it. Paul couldn’t even imagine how John could get off to this. 

God, if John ever tried to make him do this in return...Paul would  _ never _ allow it. He would never submit to it. He would bite John’s knob clean off if he even tried it. He didn’t fucking care what John would do to him afterwards.

Paul released the last of it, grinding his hips. John was stroking his hips, squeezing them, encouraging him. Thankful for the pleasure of taking him. Paul couldn’t comprehend it, but John’s expression was that of bliss.

It didn’t matter. Oh god, Paul knew the aphrodisiac still had it’s hold over him. It would make him cum over and over until he couldn’t anymore. Paul loved sex, but he would’ve never taken this vile drug of his own free will. It was a curse, mocking him. The only relief was during his brief, intense, nearly painful orgasms.

Paul’s prick was still buried in John’s throat. He was growing hard again, and he began to thrust again. Paul groaned from deep in his throat, finding the pleasure, though he was getting a bit sore. John was mumbling around him, and Paul’s eyes rolled back. Probably some fucking affirmation, or calling Paul some endearment. It was fucking empty. Great! So Paul was beautiful. Lot of good that did him!

John was nothing to him. Paul didn’t care that he was enjoying it. He was a hole to fuck, and he didn’t care how rough he was with him. The frustration and intensity and heat in his face made tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he tried to chase his next release. Paul wasn’t supposed to be _ beautiful. _ He was a man! He was a  _ man! _ Dammit...Dammit! He was a  _ man... _

Paul cried out in anguish. It was indistinguishable, blending with his cries of frustration and need.

Why did he have to look like this? Why did he have to have this face? It all seemed like a cruel joke at his expense. Any man he got close to would lust after him, and the world wouldn’t take him seriously. He got girls, he would fuck girls, but that didn’t make it better. He was sick of his situation. Had a laugh then? Well! That’s bloody gear! He wanted to get off now. Paul had enough of this. It was so unfair.

Paul reached his second release, screaming through it. He hoped he wouldn’t scream his throat hoarse. John groaned around his length, accepting as more fluid shot into his mouth. Did he  _ like _ the taste? Paul thought it was disgusting. John was depraved.

As Paul’s erection had its brief moment of softening, John lifted off, licking his lips. He was gazing with awe down at it, then took it again in his hand. John held it up, and began to mouth at it. It was all genuine, John’s hunger for him. John stroked him, watching as it began to swell again. 

Paul gave a shout of exasperation. He felt it, the blood going back into it, how his prick began to grow. John encouraged it, stroking the twitching shaft with his thumb, the spine of Paul’s dick. Paul’s thighs shuddered as John mouthed at the head. Paul was already slick with saliva, the air cooling his heated shaft. John kept licking it, as if he were starving. He focused on where Paul was most sensitive, where he knew Paul was sensitive. Paul’s hands gripped at the duvet, his back arching. His thighs were well spread as he knelt, giving John all the access he could want. He must be on cloud nine, having all he craved right in front of him, Paul fully receptive.

Paul groaned in nausea. Another orgasm would come. He wasn’t even finished yet. His hips were getting tired. His body would become exhausted, and the only option would be to let John fuck it out of him until Paul was truly satisfied. That was what John wanted.

John lifted his head at last, smiling lustfully up at him. Paul’s head was buzzing, dizzy with arousal, as well as the beginnings of exhaustion. The look seemed to endear John. The bastard.

John gently lowered Paul from his knees, sitting him down. The familiar burning was making itself known, Paul’s erection nagging at him between his lovely thighs. Uncomfortable shivers went down Paul’s sides. John was stroking him there, grounding him.

“What wouldja like tonight, Paul?”

John’s voice was low, saying it lovingly, yet with the lust Paul knew that was there.

Paul glared at him, though he was too focused on his arousal to convey anger well. His face was flushed, and his pupils were blown, his hair disheveled. He gripped the duvet under him, slouching a bit.

“Paul?” John said teasingly. 

The tone of voice made a chord of pain go through Paul’s heart. It reminded him of how John used to be, taking the piss out of him, playful conversation. The context was so much different then. This was nothing like it. Paul missed his friend, the thought even able to cut through the drug-induced lust. Paul felt sadness.

With Paul’s face right in front of his, John gave a quick kiss to his mouth, though lingering. It would’ve been sweet coming from a bird, romantic in its spontaneity...if Paul had one he liked enough...enough time to hang about with.

“Yer so lovely, Paul…” John droned on.

Unable to resist, he kissed Paul twice more, each more lingering than the last. He pressed more kisses, all over Paul’s face, as if he were hungry for it. Those lips had just been on Paul’s prick.

“I swear…” John said. His voice got lower, the affection mingling with his lust, the truth of his words. “Really...m’ in awe of’t. Everytime I see ya...Ah, _ Paul… _ ”

Paul never liked this, being kissed by John. John’s mouth was too firm, and Paul felt the stubble graze against him, and knew the scent. Rough hands on him, caressing him. John seemed to adore putting his mouth on him. John would often kiss him after sex...in  _ thanks _ ...or some other bullshit. Showing affection, post-orgasm John feeling that clarity and softness, completely delusional. But at the moment...it was torturous, the teasingly light touches of lips to his heated skin. Paul needed to cum again...Cum again and again until he couldn’t anymore. His arousal was already throbbing beneath him, burning, needing harsh and rough stimulation.

Paul jerked his hips slightly, shifting in his seat, John’s lips still on him. He felt like his skin was vibrating with frustration.

“Fuckin’  _ touch me. _ Fuckin’ need’it.” Paul growled. “You bloody cunt,  _ do’it! _ ”

John’s eyes lidded, the lustful gaze returning. Paul could just about see him salivating at his irritation.

“Yeah, Paul?” John said deeply. “What would a like me’ta do…?”

Paul didn’t care to think of the specifics. He just wanted to cum. He leant forward into John, the nearest warm body, and began to rut against him like before, rolling his hips. His prick found the rough fabric of John’s trousers, grazing harshly against the delicate skin of his shaft. If anything, the discomfort gave him sick pleasure, torturing himself to get the pleasure, anything it took.

Paul gave an obscene groan of relief, as if cool water was poured down his head, rolling down his shoulders and back, making him shiver. It endeared John, who held him back, kissing the side of his face. John was hard under him, pressing up against him through the fabric. Paul focused on the hardness, which gave him the most satisfying sensation. It only happened to pleasure John in return, who was getting all the more worked up by Paul’s attention. It was always John who took pleasure from Paul’s body, Paul never gave it to him like this before.

He rutted back against Paul just as hard and in rhythm. He clutched Paul just as hard. Paul groaned at the equal reciprocation, hot breaths landing right by John’s ear. Paul’s body was so hot, the heat radiating off of it. John loved it. Delicious. Paul overtaken by the lust, unable to even think straight. It’s what he deserved, being a tease every second of every day.

The strain of the fabric nagged at him. Being restrained was bad enough, but he wanted to feel the delicate skin of Paul’s member right against his. It would be heaven, Paul, equally needy and desperate, nerves against nerves, the delicious friction, moving in rhythm with each other. 

John reached down between them, despite how tightly Paul was pressing himself to him. The brief loss of contact would be worth it. He could feel Paul’s heartbeat pounding at his chest, how arousal buzzed beneath his skin. His beautiful partner. Jolts went through him when he first felt Paul’s member slide against his, how soft the skin was, harshly pressing against the most sensitive part of John’s body. It was like an electric shock.

  
John was much more articulate in his movements in comparison to Paul, relatively anyway. Paul was moving out of instinct, jerkily, and not well controlled. 

John reached down, and held them together in his right hand, the pressure of his grip pressing them even closer, the friction better than ever. Paul cried out, and John’s stomach fluttered at the sound. Paul began rutting harder unrestrainedly and erratically against him, his lovely hips moving in the way they did.

John’s head was blank, only capable of processing all of Paul. Incredible. John held him tightly, and Paul’s head was curled around his neck. They were so close together. ...but it wasn’t as close as being inside him, which of course was what took all of this to another level...to a spiritual plane. Still, it was intimate. Only him and Paul working together, shutting the world out. John lived for this moments, and he’d take whatever Paul had to give. John wanted to be close to Paul, as close as he could possibly get, and he wanted it as often as he could have it. Life wouldn’t be as full without him. John wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“Stop there!” John said abruptly. He realized he was about to finish. Unlike Paul, he could only do it once, he wasn’t a kid anymore. He could go twice maybe, but it wouldn’t be as good. When he did cum, he wanted it to be inside Paul. It belonged there.

Paul resisted, but John pushed him off. Paul fell against the headboard pillows with a  _ poomf, _ the air knocked out of him from the sudden contact. Christ...over eager, wasn’t he?

“ _ What? _ ” Paul spat, irritated beyond belief. Malice dripped from his voice. His pecker was throbbing with his scorned release, his vision going spotty. He raised his hips to the open air, but let them fall out of frustration.

Paul’s head turned when his thighs were pushed forward and apart by John. the open air hit the heated areas, though there was no sensation where he needed it most.

“How ‘bout I fuck ya…?” John said sweetly, the hunger in his voice. It deepened “I’ll fuck ya good and proper...I’ll fuck the drug right outta ya. It’ll be nothin’ but a distant memory.”

Paul involuntarily jerked his hips in John’s hold. He gave a short huff of indignation.

“Paul…” John teased, endeared by it all. The bastard.

“Or maybe I can fuck ya from behind?” John droned on in that same lascivious tone, quite near salivating. “You can fuck into my fist as I fuck into ya...pressing yer back into my chest...sound good, doesn’t it? ...ya won’t feel nothin’ but  _ pleasure… _ ”

Paul cut him off by a frustrated groan.

“Why’s it always me tha’s gettin’ fucked?” Paul cried out indignantly out of impulse. If John didn’t see him as a bird, why did he always fuck him like one? He really wanted to know. “Why don’t you let  _ m _ e fuck ya for once?”

He didn’t particularly want to put a part of himself into John, but Paul was sick and tired of having to take it up the ass. Why always  _ him? _ It was bad enough having to look like a bird... _ pretty _ ...but now this? It was a cruel joke at his expense, it had to be!

John looked perturbed at Paul’s outburst.

  
“Me?” John said unsteadily, taken aback, as if he hadn’t even considered it. “But. Paul…”

Paul didn’t have the mental energy to argue about this. He was just exasperated, his dick melting off as the issue went on. 

“Why?” Paul shot. “Wouldn't it be jus’ as good in yer sick ‘head gettin’ fucked by me? S’still me yer fuckin!”

“Er…” John said, the gears turning in his head at the mental image.

John made a face of disgust.

“Oh...no.” John said. “I can’t be the one gettin’ fucked…”

John kept making that face. He seemed to fully come to his conclusion.

“Obviously it should be you…yer….prettier. Paul.”

Right. Naturally! Paul was nothing more than a bird, wasn’t he? Of course he would be fucked like one!

_ Christ. _

John’s expression grew into a grin, eyeing him wide-eyed.

“Anyway...I should be the one pleasuring  _ you… _ ” John continued, his voice dripping with lust. “S’the way it’should be, in’t it? ...you pretty thing…”

Paul grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t care. He wanted John to just get on with it so the drug would be purged from his system. His prick was hard and desperate, and all this talk was making his head spin. It didn’t matter.

“...I want ya to rest yer lovely body an’ let me do the work. Show ya how much I adore ya…”

Paul gave a deep cry of exasperation. This was mad. He could barely think, much let fight the issue. When his eyes blinked open, John still wasn’t pressing forward, giving him what he needed. He was hesitating, restraining himself. The lust had faded from his face somewhat, his voice going more serious.

“Only if ya want’it, Paul. M’not gonna force ya, remember?” John said. “I’d like ta...an’ I’ll make it good for ya...but only if ya want’it.”

Paul nearly shook with rage. If he  _ wanted it? _ The fucking nerve of him...if Paul  _ wanted it,  _ John would’ve never needed to fucking drug him in the first place! Paul  _ didn’t  _ want it. He’d  _ never _ fucking wanted it. John was completely deluded in his justifications. Paul was only going along with it because he had no other choice. If John hadn’t  _ drugged _ him, Paul would barely let John  _ touch _ him, much less  _ fuck _ him. Paul didn’t _ ask  _ to be drugged. John knew damn well what he was doing, happy in playing his pretend games that Paul wanted any of this. John did the brainwork to find the loopholes,  _ anything _ to keep fucking Paul. He seemed to be unwilling...or  _ unable... _ to give it up. 

Paul should’ve known. John was completely mad, completely fixated on him sexually. There was no way around it.

Paul nodded his head jerkily, wincing. He needed it. John would give him relief, and Paul could get away from him in the morning. Even if the idea and implications of getting fucked made his stomach turn, Paul needed the sensation. He remembered how it felt, and he craved it. Every fibre of his body was screaming to let itself be fucked. Paul didn’t have the energy to pleasure himself. He could just lie there, and let his body be ravaged, and John was ready and willing. That was the only option to fully purge the aphrodisiac from his system.

John smiled sweetly at him. Paul grimaced. John seemed fully content to go along with the fantasy of Paul being happy with it, that they were lovers. It wasn’t true, but whatever got him through the night.

John turned him over lightly, and Paul allowed it. His face was burning, in equal parts from lust and shame. He knew John got no pleasure from demeaning him, nor was it his intent, but Paul still felt humiliated, even through the haze of the aphrodisiac. It was emasculating.

Paul held a headboard pillow to his chest, his hips raised, being held up lightly by John. John squeezed at the flesh, gaining pleasure from the feeling of its pliancy. John spead him open, then began eating him out like a bird.

Paul’s skin crawled with the depravity of it, but the aphrodisiac made him enjoy the sensation itself, despite himself. It was an erogenous zone, and Paul was quite desperate for sexual pleasure. He moaned into the pillow, stifling the sound, pressing back into it, despite the hairs standing up on his neck, the nagging knowledge of how disgusting this was.

John’s nails dug into his flesh with passion, his tongue worming deeper. Paul clenched around it, but that only seemed to add to John’s pleasure. Paul’s head was dizzy, his needy erection hanging uselessly below, being ignored. The burn was good, at least with some stimulation to focus on. Paul could feel the dampness of his heated skin.

Electric jolts shot through him whenever John’s tongue stretched far enough that the very tip of it grazed that little spot inside of Paul. The shocks went from that spot, up his navel, through his stomach, making his prick jump, his lower back tense, groans escaping his pretty lips. Paul pushed back against that sensation. Oh god.

John was enjoying it too, the depraved bastard...as if Paul really did have a cunt. It was drier than one, tighter than one, only an entrance, no outer labia to think of. John’s teeth would catch on the rim, giving Paul the extra intensity, the pain merging with pleasure. John’s lip grazed his perineum, and the whole area lit up. John moved his tongue inside him, trying to stretch him out, get his passage wet in a way Paul couldn’t as a man.

It was an even more pleasurable sensation than his fingers, despite their ability to find and massage down into Paul’s spot just right. The tongue was hot and wet, and had a give to it that fingers didn’t. The feeling was indescribable. Paul would’ve never experienced it otherwise...god forbid ask a bird to try. It would be beyond mortifying to ask, for the both of them. Paul could hardly believe John did it, without even a provocation. Suppose John was mad after all, drugging Paul for the very pleasure of doing it.

John spread him apart further, trying to lick him even deeper. He ran his tongue up the crevice of Paul’s ass. It was disgusting, should’ve been humiliating, but the sensations themselves only leant to Paul’s throbber. Paul groaned into the pillow, sickened, but at the same time he’d die if John didn’t continue. His prick was leaking consistently, a bead of precum bubbling near his slit, a teasing sensation as it slowly dripped lower, finally drooling onto the sheets below. 

At least they had ladies that came and cleaned it. They were no stranger to the various obscene fluids that more often than not stained their bedsheets. All four of them, ceaseless fucking. It was only natural, especially with how wet birds always were. Leaking out of their cunts like a faucet, leaking onto the sheets, getting their fluids all over your prick... _ Christ… _ Paul felt like he was about to explode, his gets tight.

John lifted his head a touch, and Paul’s body tensed. He was still spread, feeling exposed, John’s eyes on him there. He felt John’s hot breaths at the entrance. Paul had to cringe at the mental image. 

John’s hold relaxed, and he ran a hand over the curve of Paul’s ass, squeezing it, making Paul shudder in discomfort.

“I’ll fuck ya now, Paul.” John said under his breath. Paul could feel the weight on the mattress shift, the familiar sound of John’s clothing shifting.

Paul’s stomach turned, his chest sank. It never got any less demeaning, being fucked like a bird. It didn’t matter what John said to him. That’s what it felt like, being under him, being  _ taken  _ by John. As much as John tried to assure him it wasn’t the case, Paul felt humiliated. Paul was a man. He wanted to be a man. He had to look the way he did, but this made it all the more insulting. He wanted to be a  _ man. _ He  _ was _ a man!

John embraced him from behind, as if that made it better. John’s head was buried in Paul’s neck, as if seeking that comfort. 

It was of note, the way John needed him. Paul had always known of it, back before this all happened. He knew that John hid it behind his humor and grit, but he had a genuine need for Paul, and his approval. The press seemed to twist it around somewhat, funnily enough. As John was older, and had harsher features, they perceived Paul as a younger brother of sorts, looking up to him. That couldn’t be further from the truth, tying back to their image of him as the “innocent” “cute” one. Hah! Paul was anything but that. They were equal, though due to their strong wills, the moment’s dominance tended to shift often, a constant tug of war. 

They’d been a good pair. Good friends too.

John’s breath was soft on his ear, sighing almost. Paul’s eyes were shut tight, his cheek pressed to the pillow. John’s opposite hand was on Paul’s hip, aligning himself. Paul cringed. He wished John wouldn’t savor it. Paul knew he loved to draw it out, make the moment as long as possible. On Paul’s end, it caused equal grief, the suspense of it. Furthermore, the arousal made it even more torturous. _ Get on with it! Christ! _

John whispered soft things in his ear, trying to make it better for him. Paul’s head was full of nothing but radio static, hyper aware of every sensation. His prick hung heavy and swollen beneath him, and he wanted nothing more than to cum, then drop dead, exhausted.

John slicked himself up, and Paul felt the blunt head begin to press at his entrance. Paul needed it, but shuddered in dread. God, it was awful. John drew out the moment before the head popped in as long as possible, going painstakingly slow, a slight steady pressure. 

Paul didn’t move, but trembled with the apprehension. He was holding his breath. John sighed by his ear again in contentment. John’s arms tightened around Paul’s body, holding him still, and close.

John seemed to stall at the moment before only a slight nudge would make his head pop in. It was torture for Paul, being kept in suspense, but bliss for John. John’s tongue grazed the shell of Paul’s ear, making Paul wince.

“Ah, Paul…” John said, low from his throat, overtaken by emotion. He bit at Paul’s earlobe, then pushed in.

Paul sucked in a quick breath, his eyes flying open. John wasted no time in burying himself deep once the head was in. The sensation took him in a flash, the stretch, the foreign object inside him, inside someplace it shouldn’t be, the heat of it, the give. John’s heartbeat coarse through it, clearly an alive object. The head dragged roughly against his prostate as it pushed in, sending shocks throughout Paul’s whole abdomen. Paul’s prick stirred, shivering against the open air. If John touched him there, he’d be cumming in seconds. God, Paul wanted to cum.

John began to fuck Paul with passion, giving him the intensity he needed. Paul’s hands gripped at the headboard’s bars, holding them tight as his only grounding. John’s hand curled below Paul’s stomach, closing snugly around his needy prick.

“ _ Yes! _ ” Paul cried. He might’ve spewed spit along with it, but he was too far gone to care. Finally!

Paul fucked into the hand, and John fucked into him. Paul didn’t need to do anything but shout as the heat was fucked out of him. His mouth was wide open in pleasure, gasping for breath, making the sweetest cut-off noises and ugliest strangled cries.

John’s lips were on Paul’s neck, kissing, breathing him in. As he neared release, Paul’s limbs gave up the control they still had, his hips only held up by John.

“Close, Macca?”

Paul pushed back against the fucking, his head completely empty. He knew what was happening, and how he would be ashamed. That was for later. He muffled his loud cries, burying his face in the pillow. John’s grip around him was so tight, he could hardly breathe.

He came hard and violently, despite much less fluid coming out than before. He screamed his throat hoarse, as John tried to soothe him and work it through him. Paul collapsed, his heartbeat racing as the crash began, all of his energy depleted. 

Once Paul had finished, John allowed himself to use Paul’s body to pleasure himself, releasing as Paul’s surroundings began to get muddied. 

Through Paul’s sleepy haze, he felt the disgust of the hot fluid inside him, that had spurted inside him. John’s weight was on him, John’s head in his neck. He was soft again, saying his sweet things, still holding Paul close. A kiss was placed on his neck, and Paul’s consciousness drifted. The pressure and the warmth made Paul all the more groggy. 

He let himself be taken by sleep. He could worry again in the morning.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~

John was sleeping soundly. He had fallen asleep with Paul’s body warm right beside him. It was heaven. John loved having him close.

He stirred however. A soft noise in the room.

John blinked his eyes open. It was dark in the room, and Paul was no longer curled in his arms. He awoke fully at that.

He sat up.

John saw Paul’s silhouette in the darkness. He was sitting on the further edge of the bed. His head was bowed.

“Paul?” He said softly. Paul’s head didn’t turn.

Worry overcame John. He gently made closer.

“Paul?” he said.

Paul’s head turned slightly to his voice, but didn’t look at him.

“Paul…?”

John placed a light hand on Paul’s bare shoulder. Paul’s head fully turned to him, but John couldn’t see his features well in the dark.

The soft moonlight from the curtained window was dim, but he could see the curve of Paul’s face. Paul was grimacing.

“What’s wrong, Paul?” He said. His voice was concerned, tender words to his friend. Paul only cringed.

“Why, John, why…”

Paul’s voice was weak. His face went to his hands, rubbing his eyes slowly with his palms.

A chill went through John. The hand on Paul’s shoulder tightened. He pulled Paul’s hands from his face.

“Don’t cry, Paul. Don’t cry.” John strained, his voice choked with worry.

Paul raised his head, looking at John straight on.

“I’m not crying.” Paul said flatly. His tone was cold.

He wasn’t. Paul’s face was dry.

John bit his lip, still pained for his friend.

“Paul...what’s wrong?”

Paul turned away from him, his head back in his hands. He gave a low frustrated sound.

“Stop’it. Please, John. Stop’it. I can’t take it anymore!” Paul said. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me. I can’t do this anymore. I hate it.  _ I hate’it! _ ”

John’s body was frozen.

“Paul? What is’it?” John’s voice was pained and gentle. “Don’t say that Paul. Tell’me, an’ I’ll make’it better!”

  
Paul shook his head. John was deluded, completely mad.

“Stop’it, John! I don’t want’it. Please,  _ please… _ ” Paul strained. He’d all but given up, but he wanted to reach John. One last ditch effort. He couldn’t do it anymore. 

“I don’t want  _ any _ of’this. Please stop druggin’ me. I don’t  _ want’it. _ Ya jus’ fuckin’  _ make _ me want’it by givin’ me that  _ awful _ stuff. Please John. Jus’...as my _ friend _ .  _ Please... _ just... stop.”

John wrapped his arms around Paul, his face buried in his neck. Paul always was a source of comfort for him. John relied on him more than Paul knew.

“Paul...I don’ understand…” John said cautiously, making his coarse voice soft. “I adore ya, I’m gentle with ya...I wouldn’t do anythin’ to hurt ya…”

Paul gave a shaky breath of defeat. He did feel like crying now. It was hopeless.

John held him tighter.

“Don’ cry, Macca. Please don’ cry.” John said, as softly as he could. “I’ll make’it better. Paul…”

John turned Paul’s head, kissing his soft cheeks. Paul shouldn’t be miserable. They were dry at the very least. 

“Paul, c’mon...Don’ cry Mac’artney darlin’...”

  
  
  
  
  



	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning for this chapter. I would suggest skipping it, but this is the final stretch, and it only gets darker from here. It's really bad. This chapter’s worse than 13. Please don’t read if it’ll harm you.
> 
> Final warning that this isn’t a nice story, and there won’t be a happy ending.

  
  
  


Paul returned to their flat after finishing a radio interview. They had finished recording their soundtrack the day before.

Paul was done now. He’d had enough.

He didn’t care about keeping the group together. He didn’t care about the touring, or the girls, or their music. He was over it all.

This was a good stopping point. He hadn’t yet signed the film contract. He didn’t need to be in it. He was obligated to work on the soundtrack, but they’d just finished. It was over.

All that was left to do, was take his things from the shared flat, and tell Brian he was out. They couldn’t force him to stay. Paul would go to court if necessary. He knew it wouldn’t be a popular decision. The fans might riot, the others might be unhappy as well, not even knowing the reason. 

But Paul had truly had enough. He was over it. That was as good a reason as any.

He was going to move in with Jane and Peter’s folks. He had a place there. He could find something else to do with work. He didn’t have to even give up music. Peter had a group. He could write for them. 

Paul already had a plan for what he’d do once the group inevitably disbanded, no longer young heartthrob idols, too old for rock n roll. His plan was to write scores for films and the like, things for others to sing. 

Though it was earlier than he’d thought, Paul had resigned to the fact this chapter of his life was over. He’d probably be happy enough with Jane. He didn’t need to have a new girl every night. He’d gotten tired of it. 

With him no longer touring, Jane had no reason to be out as well, doing her acting thing. Paul would get a place for the two of them, and she’d tend to him as she should. She was a pretty one, and they got on well enough. Paul was fine to settle down.

Paul had some things he wanted to take, but not much. He’d never called their London flat a home, really. It was hardly different from their various hotel rooms, a place to be stayed in while only passing through. They didn’t stay there long with the touring. Paul hadn’t even been in when the rest of them claimed rooms, so he’d ended up with the smallest one. His things were about, but not even that much. The only place he’d considered a home was with his dad, all the way up North. His old room, his old stomping grounds. He had good memories there, but also bad ones. Despite it, those were the better days.

He missed his dad…

When Paul walked in, he went direct to his room, not giving the rest of the flat a passing glance. There didn’t seem to be anyone about. It was better that way.

The other two didn’t do him any wrong, but he couldn’t look George in the eye like he used to. He knew George was still concerned for him, that they both had love for him, but it didn’t matter now. Fame had tainted it all. Whenever he saw their faces, all he could think of was all the terrible memories. The touring, the stress, the mad fans, the pressure, and all the horrible things John had done to him. They were all tightly woven, and Paul would just put all of it behind him. Looking forward now. It was all in the past.

Paul wished things were back to the way they used to be at times. Back when they were young and hopeful, yearning for this very fame. It was a better time. 

To truly go back though, he would have to forget. It could never go back to the way it was, knowing what he did, having gone through what he did. 

Paul looked lazily through his things in his room. He heard the door to the flat open. Paul didn’t pay it no mind.

Paul heard footsteps, the pace relaxed. One of his friends must have come back, making a cup of tea. 

Paul had begun thinking over what to take, when there was a slight tapping at his door. 

“Hullo, Paul.”

Paul turned his head. John was greeting him pleasantly in passing. Paul simply looked at him, his expression unchanged. He had no desire to speak with him.

At the silence, John’s expression grew a bit confused. He looked towards Paul, sitting on the floor of his room, sorting through his things.

“Paul? What’re you doing?”

His tone was casual still, not accusatory or anything of the sort. Paul turned back to his task. He wanted John to leave him. He should get the hint.

Unfortunately though, John walked closer, crouching down beside him. John’s arms embraced him from the side, and Paul felt nothing but resentment.

“...Paul, speak to me.” John said, trying to make his harsh voice soft in the way he did. “Did I do somethin’?”

“Let go.” Paul said flatly.

John tentatively did.

“Paul?”

Paul scowled, not turning his head to his partner.

“I’m glad to be outta here.” Paul said bitterly. “I’ll finally be free of yer bullshit.”

Paul wasn’t looking at him, but he felt John tense up.

“What?”

John sounded confused, a bit hurt. Almost like a child.

  
Paul stood up disaffected, looking down at him coldly.

“John, I’m leaving the group.” He said bluntly. “M’leaving this damned flat too. I’ve had enough.”

John’s face fell. He certainly understood now.

“What?”

“M’done. I don’ care what the rest of you do, but m’leaving.”

John shook his head, his expression that of disbelief. His features were becoming pale.

“No, no, you can’t, Paul. You can’t leave the group.”

Paul had no sympathy for him, looking down at his partner unmoved.

“I’m gonna talk to Brian, then I’ll be out. We’re done recording, and the new gigs aren’t set up. I’m done.”

John scrambled for words. He quickly got to his feet, standing up.

“What about the film?” He said. “We’ve...got the film, Paul! That’s what the bloody soundtrack’s _for!_ ”

“Don’t care.” Paul’s voice was flat. “Jus’ release the soundtrack as an album. Do the film without me. I don’t care what you do.”

“Paul no! You can’t! Paul, you can’t!”

John’s voice was rising, not in anger or force, but in desperation. His heart was racing, his palms going clammy. No, no, Paul couldn’t do this to him!

  
As John’s desperation grew, Paul’s amusement did also. Paul gave a laugh at the whole situation, John’s panic.

“Why can’t I?” He said amusedly, but with a biting edge. “M’not yer fuckin’ _pet,_ John. I’m not yer fuckin’ _wife._...I don’t want to fuckin’ be around ya! Don’t you get’it? I’m done, and I’m going!”

John shook his head again, his face pale. No, no, no…

“No, Paul, you can’t. Please...Paul...Paul, what about the group?” John stammered, his voice coming frantic. This couldn’t happen!

“You can’t jus’ up and leave! What’ll we do without ya? Even if we find a new bassist...the girls...the girls will go _mad_ , Paul!” His voice got increasingly louder. “Remember when we replaced Pete? It’ll be _nothing_ compared to that! They’ll fuckin’ riot! Like bloody animals, Paul! If we replace ya...they’ll _kill_ the poor bastard!”

Paul looked at him coldly, no longer laughing. Paul let the silence stretch, not humoring him with a response. His lips were drawn tight.

“Paul…” John’s eyes were wide and mad, looking at him with anguish. “I...I can’t write without ya! We’ve always, _always_ written together! You gotta...you gotta…”

John trailed off. Paul didn’t fucking care, looking at him like a rotten thing, a gaze of pure hatred. Paul wouldn’t take pity on him. He tried a different approach.

“...the others, what about them? They’ve never done you no wrong, and you’d be hurting them too! They wouldn’t even know why!”

Paul made a tsk sound.

“They’ll fuckin’ manage. Anything to never see yer rotten mug again.”

It was like a dagger to the heart. Paul was tearing him apart, as he always held the power to. John felt completely helpless, his hands shaking feebly. He felt pathetic, as if he was about to cry. He didn’t care if he lost Paul’s respect, John’s world was shattering around him. He couldn’t bear losing Paul, John needed him like mad. John couldn’t imagine his life without him. 

For years, Paul had been close by, constantly by his side. He was nothing without Paul. They were the perfect match. In the media, the papers, they were an inseparable pair. Lennon-McCartney. It had to be that way, for all time. It was meant to be. John wanted Paul beside him until the day he died.

He didn’t care. He needed Paul to stay with him, at any cost. John gave into the pitifulness, falling to his knees, grovelling, his face a pathetic mess.

“You can’t leave the group, Paul!” he cried. “You can’t! I’ll be better. What do I have’ta do? I’ll do anythin’, Paul, don’ do this! Don’ do this to’me! I need ya! I need ya!”

John’s voice was that of despair, his hands clasped in begging, staring up madly, pleading on his knees. There was nothing else he could do.

“Macca... _darling._ ”

The endearment fell from John’s lips, shifting the atmosphere to something strange, permeating the air. John carried on pleading without a missed beat, his voice becoming increasingly unhinged and desperate.

“M’sorry! M’sorry if I did ya wrong, I’ll make it better, Paul! Anything! I need ya! Don’t leave the group! I’ll be better to’ya!”

“Get up.” Paul said flatly. His expression was that of disgust, his gaze beyond hostile.

John couldn’t understand how such gentle features could look so cruel, such a soft voice cut through him in a way nothing else could. John’s mind lost coherence, his gaze intensified in despair, his eyes wide and mad, tears pricking at them. His words come out distraught and manic.

“ _Don’t leave me!_ ” John cried. “ _Paul!_ ”

Paul didn’t flinch, but he was tense, unable to tear his eyes from the display. It was like the aftermath of a train collision, horrible to watch, but mesmerizing in it’s perverse horror. He barely recognized the man as the John he once knew.

John slouched over, his weight bracing on his palms. He was still looking pleadingly up at Paul, the distraught expression on his face. John’s eyes were glazed and pained, his mouth ajar. Paul’s own mouth was curled downward in distaste.

“Get _up,_ John.”

Unable to think, John shot to Paul’s legs, hugging them, burying his face in the fabric as if he were a kid. The emotion combined with Paul’s scent overwhelmed him, wetting the material with his tears.

“ _Don’t leave me, Paul!_ ”

Paul tried to shake him off, but John held on tighter, his eyes shooting open, his nose buried in the fabric. Paul was beside himself with disbelief.

“ _Get the f’off me!_ ” Paul shrieked in fury, his voice spiking high. “The _fuck is this?_ What the _fuckin’ hell is this?”_

Paul gathered all his strength, throwing John off. John was knocked back, and scrambled to sit up, looking miserably up at Paul.

“You’ve gone completely mad!” Paul shrieked at him, fuming with anger. His lovely arched eyebrows were furrowed, those gentle lidded eyes intense with fury. His voice always had a sweetness to it, something Paul couldn’t control, but his tone was laced with all the hatred it could muster. 

It hurt John, made him shrink into himself, the disgust in Paul’s expression. John had given up his heart and soul to Paul. He was completely vulnerable to him. Everything that he was, and would ever be, was Paul’s, held in the palm of his gentle hand. Because of this, Paul was the only one who could thoroughly break him.

“You’re fuckin’ _sick,_ John! You’re sick in the ‘head! M’not gonna fuckin’ put up with this! You need _help,_ John!”

Paul’s eyes widened in force, shaking his head.

“Whatever’s happened to ya...or if you were always this way...I can’t fix ya! You’re...You’re completely _mad,_ John!”

Paul was shaking his head, hands out, backing away. He was backing away. Paul was going to leave. Oh God, Christ...Paul would leave, then he’d leave the group, then Paul would leave him. No, no! He couldn’t!

John scrambled to his feet. His hand shot to Paul’s arm, harshly grabbing it so he couldn’t go, frantic.

“Paul, you can’t!” He cried.

Paul’s gaze towards him was colder than ever, his teeth gritted, eyebrows furrowed. He tried to jerk his arm free, move away. John’s other hand shot to grab Paul’s other arm, keeping him there by any means necessary. John’s heart was beating quickly, acting irrationally out of panic, his skin clammy.

He wanted to kiss Paul, hold his body in a vice grip, so he couldn’t pull away, Paul’s body, his warmth pressed tight against him. John needed it, the comfort and the scent. If he did that though, he knew Paul would try to struggle free. John knew he would. Paul was trying to break free _now._ John needed Paul’s touch, he needed to feel Paul’s body against his. He needed Paul’s presence around him, he needed Paul beside him, _always._ He couldn’t live without it. It wasn't a matter of discussion. He needed Paul’s voice and his scent and warmth, Paul’s beauty. John needed him like the food he ate and the air he breathed. Paul was his other half, and John would be incomplete without him. His life would be empty. It would be cold and meaningless _John needed him like mad._ He’d die before losing Paul. He’d die...

Paul’s eyes darted to John’s grip as he struggled. John saw it. He saw it flash across Paul’s eyes. Fear.

Something rose inside of John.

Fear. Paul was afraid.

John’s grip tightened. Paul was afraid of him, even if only in the recesses of his mind. It wasn’t good that Paul was...but…

John hardened his features. He looked Paul dead in the eye. Paul’s cruel gaze faltered. He seemed to shrink. The man taller than him, equal to him.

“Paul.” John said darkly. He steadied his voice, no longer frantic and panicked.

Paul’s body had frozen up, his hairs standing on end. His teeth were gritted, unable to break John’s hard gaze. John didn’t have a cruel look, but his eyes were large and glassy, his face stern.

“Paul.” John said, not a trace of humor in his voice. “If you leave...I’ll kill ya.”

The color drained from Paul’s face. Without warning, he jerked himself out of John’s hold, clutching it to himself. He backed away. 

“What?” Paul shot, looking at him with incredulous disbelief.

John blinked at him. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Paul. I’ll kill ya.”  
  


Paul faltered. John wanted to reach out to him, but Paul put more distance between them.

“I don’t wanna do’it, Paul, I don’t!” John said quickly. His voice got a bit quieter, a bit sadder, softening. “I don’t wanna take a pretty thing like you from the world.”

John’s features hardened again, his voice growing cruel.

“...but I will if I gotta.”

John’s voice was serious, but Paul had to laugh. John was right mad, he was, mind completely gone. He had resorted to empty threats. The fear though, was still present in the back of his mind, a chill through his fingers.

“An’ how’re you gonna do’it, John?” Paul snorted. “Kill me, I mean. A bullet through the eyes? A dagger to the heart? I mean, come on...”

“I dunno how I’ll do it.” John said. “But I’ll find a way, Paul. I’ll find a way to kill ya.”

John’s face grew grim. There wasn’t a trace of facetiousness in it. Paul’s amusement faded quickly. Dread crept over him. He felt a chill all over. 

John’s expression softened, becoming sorrowful.

“I don’t want it to hurt, Macca,” John said, sadness in his voice. “I promise ya...I’ll do it so it doesn’t hurt…”

John’s voice broke.

“An’ ya know I can’t...ya know I can’t be without ya... I’ll come with ya.”

Paul’s voice died in his throat. He couldn’t come up with a thing to say. John’s features were cruel again, cementing the threat.

“Even if ya do leave, I’ll find ya. I’ll find ya, an’ you’ll be dead, Macca.”

Paul’s blood ran cold. Not a trace of humor. This wasn’t a bit.

“You wouldn’t.” Paul still felt like John was only playing mind games, but his voice wavered at John’s grim tone. He was mostly in disbelief. John wouldn’t...John wouldn’t go that far.

“Ya...won’t. John, I know you won’t. That’s...mad. _Murder,_ John?”

John’s eyes seemed glassy, as if he wasn’t even there. He nodded jerkily in response, his gaze fixed on Paul. He was dead serious. Paul’s hair stood on end. It didn’t seem natural, any of it. Paul could barely recognize him as the man he once called his closest friend. Paul didn’t see that John at all in him. Something had happened, and John had lost his mind.

“Would though.” John said. “I would ‘cause I’m that mad for ya. Believe me.”

John pointed his finger at him, and Paul took a step back. He didn’t want to be anywhere near him at the moment. John was mad. This wasn’t John. What the hell was this?

“I’ll find ya, an’ I'll kill ya. M’sorry Paul, but I’will. I will.” John said. “You’ll stay in the fuckin’ group.”

Paul could only gawk at him. He must not be hearing correctly. That was the only possibility.

“John…” He said.

John walked closer to him, the same vacant stare. Paul’s body stiffened up. John prodded Paul’s chest with his finger. 

“Leave an’ you’ll die, yeah? I’ll die too, Macca. Ya think m’pulling yer fuckin’ leg? M’dead serious. Leave, an’ I’ll kill ya.”

John was too close for comfort. Paul wasn’t going to fucking stand there and fucking shiver as John went on like this. Paul’s jaw tightened in anger, and he socked John right across the face, good and hard.

“ _FUCK!_ ” John hollered and stumbled back, gripping his face.

Paul’s fist tingled with pain, but he could barely feel it with the adrenaline. His heartbeat was in his ears, his entire body tense with the rush. John snapped out of his shock, incredulous, glaring deliriously with rage at Paul, still clutching his face.

John lunged at him, but Paul leapt out of the way. John managed to grab hold of his arm in a vice-like grip, trying to pull Paul towards himself. Again, John went for the right arm, and Paul was able to shove him off roughly, making him stumble back.

“ _Get off’me!_ ” Paul shouted at him, bellowing from his throat. “Ya hear yerself? Yer fuckin’ mad, John! You’ve fuckin’ lost it! M’getting away from ya while I still can! You’ve gone fuckin’ mad!”

That only seemed to make John angrier, his eyebrows furrowing, his face contorted in fury. He went for Paul, grabbing his shirt in his fist. Paul glared back with equal hatred. He tried to wrestle himself free, but John’s grip tightened. Paul tried to push John back by the face, but he shook Paul’s hand off. He jerked Paul in his hold as Paul kept trying to wrestle free. Paul’s dress shirt became untucked from his trousers, becoming more and more disheveled from the rough handling.

John let go, then grabbed a better handful, pulling Paul closer. He then grabbed a fistful of Paul’s long hair, yanking him up. He was too large and heavy to lift, but it threw off his balance, and hurt. Paul winced, but quickly forced his eyes open, staying on the defensive. He couldn’t struggle much though, being held by the hair. John pulled his arm back, and gave a firm blow to his ribs. Paul cried out in pain and anger. His eyebrows furrowed, and he sunk his short nails into John’s wrist, making him let go before he could get another hit in.

John let go with a yelp, dropping Paul from his grip. He held his wrist, looking back up at Paul furiously.

“Yer not gonna fuckin’ leave, Paul. I won’t let ya leave.”

“Oh, ya won’t, eh?” Paul gave a bark of a laugh, but he wasn’t amused. “Fuckin’ watch me.”

Paul seethed at his former partner with all the malice and hatred that had been building up inside him for the past six months. _Six months of this shit._

“M’fuckin’ done, John. I don’t care. M’fucking done. I’m _done_ with ya, see? M’done with yer _shit._ Don’care about the fuckin’ _group,_ or the fuckin’ _money._ M’gonna fuckin’ leave, an’ get as far away from ya as I fuckin’ can!”

John’s expression got increasingly furious as Paul spoke, the harsh words cutting right into his core. He trembled with anger, his fury making him shake. No he fucking wouldn’t No Paul fucking wouldn’t.

He lunged at Paul again, without warning, knocking him to the ground. Paul recovered quickly, trying to get a blow in, but he didn’t have the space to pull his fist back, making them less effective. He pushed against John’s shoulders, trying to throw him off, but John’s weight was boring down on him, keeping him in place. Paul couldn’t kick him either because of it. Paul still struggled furiously, shouting in anger, seeing red. He brought his fists down on John but it didn’t do much. John had the upper hand.

Paul’s heart nearly froze when he felt John’s hands close around his neck. He immediately became more frantic, his heart beating a mile a minute. He clawed at John’s wrists, but if anything, they tightened around him. Paul’s eyes shot to John’s, and it chilled him to his core. Paul didn’t even recognize a light inside them. John’s eyebrows were furrowed, his teeth gritted, nothing behind the eyes. His only objective was to stop Paul’s breath.

Paul had already been struggling with everything he had, but it became even more desperate. He was in full blown panic. He couldn’t breathe! He gasped for breath, but no matter how much he tried, it didn’t work! The hands around his neck were too tight. He couldn’t kick out his legs, or try to shake John off him. He clawed at the hands, but it was getting increasingly difficult. Paul’s hands were getting weaker, trying, but failing, to pull John’s grip off.

Paul’s head was slammed against the floor with force, irritation from his efforts to struggle free. Pain bloomed where it made contact, but Paul’s main concern was taking in breath. He couldn’t...he couldn’t breathe.

“You think I won’t Mac’artney? You’ll fuckin’ die!” John shouted, deranged and unhinged, drunk off the power. There was nothing behind the eyes. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ya, Macca! You won’t be gone from’me!”

Paul could hardly recognize the man above him. Paul’s anger dissipated. His fear, his struggle, also faded away. He felt lightheaded, the coherence disappearing from his eyes. Paul felt his being fade away. He was drifting away. Paul was coming to terms with what his life had been, and how he was reaching the end. There was nothing he could do.

“Fuckin’ die, then, Macca! You fuckin’ cunt! I’ll fuckin’ kill ya!”

Paul felt as if he was hearing the sound from underwater. He felt cold, but moreso, he became sad. So incredibly sad. Misery overtook him. The face he was looking up at, the last thing he’d ever see, the man who was trying to end his life, was somebody he once considered his closest friend. His brother. 

Paul stopped moving entirely. Paul’s hands stopped trying to pry John’s off him, simply resting atop them. Paul curled his fingers around the edges of John’s hands gently, trying to seek comfort from it, at the very least, his last few moments. Those hands used to be kind to him. He wanted to remember that. He looked up at John sadly, giving into his fate. Paul’s vision began to blur, and tears pricked at the corners of them. Out of instinct, he kept gasping for breath, but there was no hope for him. He felt nothing but misery. Paul mourned. Not only for himself, but for John.

…

The hands suddenly let go, pulling off him with quick sharp movement. The second they did, Paul immediately sucked in air. His eyes rolled back, and he gasped and choked and took in as much as he could. Tears pricked at his eyes at the intensity. Paul coughed and sobbed, the life rushing back to his body in a frantic blur.

Paul was pulled up by his shoulders. Arms wrapped around him tightly, pulling Paul into an embrace. Paul kept gasping and wheezing for air, John’s face buried in his neck. The color quickly came to Paul’s face as his head spun. He felt horrible whiplash that he’d never experienced before. John’s hands were stroking his back, soothing him. Paul’s mind was still racing to catch up. 

John was embracing him, embracing him in a loving way. John was holding him tightly, as if John wasn’t the one who he’d just exchanged blows with, as if he hadn’t just tried to rob Paul of his life.

Paul’s vision spun. He breathed and breathed. His heart was beating so quickly he thought it’d beat out of his chest. He felt the pain of the blows, on his head, on his gut, where John had grabbed his arm and yanked his hair, the feeling of John’s hands still around his neck. It was all overshadowed though, by the relief of breath in his lungs.

Paul’s hair stood on end, he shifted in John’s hold. He let out a wheeze of disbelief. The adrenaline was tingling in his fingertips, a cold sweat all over his body. _John had nearly killed him! John had fully intended to kill him!_

John’s hands were still stroking him, trying to comfort him, stop his trembling, and slow his heart rate. Paul was still in shock. He couldn’t think. He was frozen, shaking in John’s embrace.

“Paul...Paul…” John murmured adoringly into his neck. Paul could feel his nose graze against his skin. It shook him to his core. John’s hold tightened, embracing him snugly, grounding him. Paul shivered. He didn’t know whether to cry, or beat John away from him. He couldn’t stop shaking. He just didn’t know.

“I don’t wanna do it, Paul. I really don’t. I’d rather have ya for as long as I can.”

John gave him a squeeze, as if he were relieved, as if he’d nearly lost him. But it was his _fault!_ John had tried to _kill him!_ Paul drew in a shaky, terrified breath. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to run. John wasn’t kidding, and it wasn’t an empty threat. John _would_ kill him. He shook in the hold. John was trying to calm him down, comfort him, but it wasn’t working. John’s very presence and familiarity shook him to his core. Paul was _horrified._

“Paul…”

Lips grazed against Paul’s neck. John’s voice was even softer. It all seemed out of place. John was speaking tenderly, though with a hesitation, as if it were hard to say.

“Y’know…” John murmured into his neck. “...I love ya, Paul. I do. Tha’s what I feel...proper love, Paul.”

John’s arms tightened around him. Paul was so sweet and soft in his arms. Not a frail woman, he was larger, and had a different build. John didn’t need to hold back the way he did with his broads. He could hold Paul as tightly as he wanted to, release the extent of his love upon him.

Paul’s hair was soft and gentle, grazing beside his face. His body was lovely, the slight dip of his waist, the lovely, such familiar scent. He was trembling horribly, his breath shaky. He kept stroking Paul’s back.

“Didn’t believe’it existed, but I do. I can’ think of anythin’ else to call’it. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love ya.”

Oh, but he did. He did. He loved Paul. Paul was perfect physically, not one flaw, every inch of him, every scent and sound, utterly lovely. But John loved Paul as well, all of his faults and the ugliness within. Paul was his perfect other half, completing him in a way no one else did.

John would be incomplete without him, and if that happened, he could no longer exist.

“You’ll be happy with’me, Paul. I promise,” John said, speaking as if he were in a trance. “I’ll give ya a good lifetime, Paul. I promise ya. I’ll love ya ‘till the day I die.”

The words went in one of Paul’s ears and out the other. His head was ringing.

John shifted in the embrace, still holding Paul, but sitting on his heels.

“Paul, let me show ya. You’ve been so repulsed by’it, but please try to see’it. I want ya to see what I see.” John was saying, his voice soft and exposed. It was so out of place. His tone was pleading, even.

John lowered Paul to his back. Paul was unable to protest or resist. He was numb. He simply let himself be guided by the touches. John’s hands were on his trousers, stalling at the fly. John hesitated there.

“Paul, forget about the hang’ups.” John said. “Don’ think of it like a man fuckin’ ya, or violatin’ ya. S’only me, Macca. I care for ya, you know I do.”

“They warped our ‘heads, Paul. Made ya think of’t as somethin’ shameful. S’not...jus’ sex, Paul, it’s...s’beautiful. I can’t explain it to ya...you gotta feel’it Paul.”

Paul’s limbs tingled as he regained sensation in them, but he couldn’t speak. John’s hands were gentle on him now, horribly light, as if he were touching something fragile, making up for the roughness before. John’s voice was getting mumbly as it grew impassioned.

“Macca, love...somethin’ happens when I’m inside ya. S’not jus’ because of the fuckin’...s’like m’part of ya…”

John hesitated, but with Paul not offering complaint, John slowly, very slowly, began to undo it.

“Please, Paul...try an’ feel it. S’not a filthy thing m’doing to ya...or perverted. Let that go. Don’ think about any implications with’it, me making ya a bird or nothin’. Tha’s not what this’is.”

John rested his hand on Paul’s bare navel, low enough that his intentions were clear, but not going further without a sign from Paul.

“S’not a power trip, to put ya under’me. S’not supposed to be _humiliating,_ or _take_ anything from ya. If anything, we’re one an’ the same. Truly, s’beautiful, Paul.”

John was stroking him there on his navel, a soft touch on his bare skin, the roughness of John’s callouses dragging against it. He was just above where Paul’s pubic hair began, not going lower. Paul’s head was completely empty.

Against all logic, it felt nice...the gentle touch. It was an intimate area, though not glaringly so. Against all odds, it stirred something inside of Paul. It was so kind, and from somebody he once was so close to. John was so familiar to him, John as his friend, all these years, a respect for him early on, despite Paul’s age.

He’d impressed John with his abilities, his knowledge of the rock greats of the time. They’d got on well, back before they could even imagine the direction their lives would take. Him and John, back in those old days. The memories were still nice to think back on, and brought him comfort. Times could be terrible, the dingy rooms, being hopped up on drugs to play for hours straight, but now it was only a happy memory, any discomfort long since faded away. It got them to where they needed to be in the end.

“Just once, Paul, let yerself feel nice. I want ya to see’it.”

John was looking at him during an intense gaze, vulnerability in his eyes. It was completely genuine. It worried Paul, but the numbness that had overtaken him was much more powerful. Paul couldn’t feel anything. He felt a ringing in his ears. More than anything, he craved warmth. Paul wanted to be comforted, fill the empty static that was inside of him. Paul needed love. John was his friend. John had been his friend. John was being kind to him.

“I feel’it Paul. Whenever m’inside ya. You should feel it too, s’for the both of us. It’s the two of us Paul. We were born to know each’other, I really think so. Was always supposed’ta be this way, an’ that’s why I feel the way I do. You should feel it too.”

Paul wanted it, the feeling John was describing. Paul wanted to feel safe and secure. He’d give anything for it. He wanted a love like that.

Hell, Paul had gotten rich off his love songs he kept spouting, but what had he to show for it? All he did was fuck one broad after another. Paul loved to fuck, but that probably wasn’t the type of love he was singing about. He didn’t think he felt it for Jane, properly anyway. She was absolutely gorgeous, that much was obvious. She was a kind girl, and Paul confided in her. But hell, he hadn’t seen her in a good long while. With the touring, and her abroad on set. Paul wrote a song for Dot, back when he was dating her, but he was even more immature back then. He shaped her into the girl Paul wanted her to be. That would’ve been Bridgette Bardot pretty much.

Ha! Bardot...she was his first love, fisting his prick over a black and white photograph, just discovering that you’d get a buzzing in your stomach if you rubbed it just right, and how nice girls were to look at. Then again, he’d never met the girl, so could Paul call it love? Well, there was love, then there was lust. Paul surely had a surplus of the latter. It wasn’t a crime to be an amorous sort, was it? 

Well, what did he have to show for it? Lying numb on the floor, with John’s hand gently on his navel.

Paul felt as though a couple tears would slip from his eyes, the aftermath of the intensity, but they remained dry. John’s hand was comfortable where it was, but Paul wanted more pressure. He wanted it lower. Paul wanted to feel grounded.

Paul’s eyes drifted up to John’s lazily. John’s eyes were fixed on him intensely, but upon noticing Paul’s gaze on his, they softened. 

Paul’s lips tried to move, but the words wouldn’t come. He shut his eyes, taking in breaths. Upon his eyes closing, he could feel the hands back on his neck. Paul’s eyes shot back open, heaving in breaths to prove to himself he could. He couldn’t remember it, it would make it seem like it was still happening. Paul didn’t want to remember it. Unable to breathe, his dear friend suffocating him, wanting him dead. It had only been a warning the next time…

...the next time...John would kill him.

Paul felt the buzzing again, the numbness and static within him again. Paul needed...he needed to be grounded. John’s hand was on him, the warm palm. 

John would ground him. John would touch him gently, make pleasure bloom in his abdomen. Paul needed that floating feeling. Paul prefered to have women for this task, soft and pretty, their dainty voices and submissiveness, everything John wasn’t. But John adored him. John said so, and that should be enough. John would help him float.

Paul looked back up at him. John wasn’t like he was before. There was no fury in his eyes, no emptiness. It was as if it was the John from before, despite how he was behaving strangely, the John he cared for, and who cared for him. Paul could recall things in John’s gaze toward him that, in hindsight, suggested further desire, but nonetheless, John had cared for him back then. John had been his closest friend.

Paul softened his eyes, matching John’s gaze. He felt dizzy. He couldn’t quite smile. His face felt tired.

John’s eyes widened, then softened again. John smiled warmly, rather than the manic expressions he’d had before that day. He looked at peace.

“I love ya, Paul.”

Paul refrained from closing his eyes, but he unfocused them, letting them blur. John was slowly moving the band of his briefs down, and Paul could feel the air on the sensitive area. Paul held his breath when a hand curled around his soft member.

Paul usually got hard pretty quick, regardless of what situation he was in. It didn’t matter what Paul thought. Upon recognizing that it would be getting touched, his prick would go up. Paul wasn’t a teenager any longer, yet it would go up for the darndest things. A fucking breeze would set it off.

However, Paul was much too shaken. At the prospect of losing his life, sex had been the last thing on his mind. He wanted comfort more than sexual pleasure at that moment. Paul wanted to be grounded and safe. John had promised to give him that. His good friend.

It was endearing to John, it being soft and warm like this. It was sweet and delicate in his hand, quite pliant. He had to be gentle with it. John liked both sides, the desperate, filthy, lustful Paul, and the sweet demure beauty and innocence of him. John felt it stir in his hand after a moment, the blood, very slowly, filling it.

John stroked his thumb lightly back and forth, quite slowly. It wasn’t a hasty pace to get him hard. John was quite happy to let it happen gradually, let the warmth bloom inside Paul. Paul hummed from his throat, the sensation reaching his thighs. John smiled down at him.

“Paul…” He said, barely a whisper. Paul would hear him, quiet in the room, but it would be nowhere near an abrasive sound. “Lift’up, dear.”

Paul raised his hips, his mind floating away. He did as John had asked him so kindy, to let go. Paul would’ve been humiliated being undressed like this, but he was miles away on a cloud. John would adore him, Paul would have his pleasure. John would give it to him.

Paul didn’t notice John’s head moving downwards, but a kiss was placed on his upper thigh brushing against Paul’s fuzzy hair. Paul shifted his leg lazily.

“I’ve always liked’this.” John’s voice kept that quiet softness. He trailed his finger lightly along Paul’s thigh, feeling the dark body hair move under it. It got much thicker as it reached his center. “So’soft, Macca, love.”

John was mesmerized. He knew he could make love to Paul for years, and his awe would not lessen. For years and years...Paul’s lovely dark hair would lighten, lines would appear on his face, but John knew that no matter what happened, Paul would still have his grace and beauty, that joyful light behind those dark hazel eyes.

John pushed those well-shaped thighs further apart, making the subtle scent waft all around him. Paul was slowly hardening at the attention, resting on his elbows. John looked dreamily up at his face. Paul looked beautifully demure, gazing back at him, his eyes gently lidded, their lovely downward slope, making him look sleepy.

John wished he could pick him up, carry him, lay Paul gently on the bed, but he knew Paul was much too heavy. He liked it that way, Paul being so lovely, and more of him, a man to stand at his eye-level.

“Lie back, darlin.” John whispered. “I’ll take good care of’ya.”

Paul complied, letting his eyes lid further, gently resting on his back. John leant in closer, his breaths landing on Paul’s bare skin. Paul truly had a lovely body.

He held Paul’s length in his hand, squeezing softly. It had grown a bit more now. Paul let out a gentle moan. It was a beautiful sound, soft and deep. John’s heart fluttered. John preferred this a bit to the aphrodisiac, no drug induced madness, the ability to go slower, savor their time together. It was perfect, the two of them together. Paul would see it. He loved Paul, and Paul would love him. Paul had to love him.

Nobody would care for him the way John did. So many...so so many adored Paul. Paul drew so many to him, with his beauty and captivating cheer. Many lusted after him too. But John was his perfect match. John was made for him, and Paul was born for him. Paul came to him that day for a reason, and ever since then, they’d had their bond. It was fate.

John was stroking him slowly, Paul was nearly to size. They both liked it fast, and John could certainly say he knew how Paul liked it, but he always began slow. John enjoyed taking his time, in no hurry to finish. It was nothing like with the women. John didn’t care for their pleasure, they were just a hole to fuck for that night. Paul was anything but a hole to fuck. John wanted to draw out every little sound from Paul, let the pleasure bloom and ebb inside him.

Paul was hard, but not desperately so. It was lovely like this, warm and firm, softly pink. Paul’s prick was immaculate, like a sweet. When it got desperate, it would be swollen, obscenely so, which made lust surge inside John as it leaked and throbbed. Less pretty, veins appearing, but lovely and dark red, like a rose.

John loved it when Paul was at the very brink of cumming most of all. So needy for it, his hips moving instinctively, needing the sensation. Paul felt nothing other than the innate desire. Paul knew exactly what he wanted in that brief moment.

John’s eyes moved upward. He knew Paul must be tense. The poor thing. John loved him so much. He loved Paul so much. He loved Paul enough that it’d drive any man mad. John knew what he needed in his life, and he’d go whatever lengths to keep it. 

In the moment, he wanted Paul to be calm again, melting into John’s embrace. He made his point. He’d show Paul love now.

John’s hands moved to Paul’s dress shirt. It had become quite crumpled during the previous altercation. No matter, it’d come off, and the memory would fade away. John slowly, delicately, unbuttoned it. Paul allowed it, lying as still as a corpse. His chest was heaving still, his heart beating quick, still overwhelmed by the events only minutes before. John wanted him calm again. His movements were slow, his touches gentle. Soon, Paul’s beautiful chest was revealed.

No matter how many times he saw it, or any other part of Paul really, he was in awe. Paul was beautiful, every inch of him. Paul’s chest and stomach was impossibly soft, the subtle curves, the slight dip of his waist. He didn’t look like a woman, but there wouldn’t be a man born as lovely as Paul. There was a slight dusting of hair on his chest, but only in the very center, and so delicate. Paul’s puffies were soft, pink, and inviting, and John knew how deliciously sensitive they were.

John ran his hands over them, massaging Paul’s chest. Paul’s eyes quickly fell shut, flinching his heart beating quick. The poor thing. Luckily, the gentle touches were helping bring it lower, making his breath softer.

John began to toy with Paul’s sweet puffies especially, focusing his attention there. Warmth buzzed inside him when Paul’s breath hitched, and his body stiffened. Paul loved it. It was incredible. It was beyond what John could’ve even expected, Paul feeling good from his tits.

John stroked and pinched them, eyes flitting up to Paul’s face to gage his reactions. Paul’s eyes were shut, but his face was beginning to get slightly flushed from it, his features flinching whenever John did something particularly good. It was heavenly, and warmth kept pooling in his abdomen.

John’s grip tightened on them, making Paul inhale sharply. John’s smile was wide and content, deeply endeared by each and every little response.

Paul’s puffies had hardened into nubs, still delicious, the shade of pink addictive. It was the same shade as Paul’s lips, his prick when it filled with blood.

John brought his mouth down, taking one of those pretty things in his mouth. Paul’s back arched into it, his nipple being overtaken by a warm wetness and pleasure.

John sucked on it just as he sucked Paul’s knob. He pressed his tongue flat against the sensitive protrusion, feeling it poke against him, the tip of his tongue dragging circles against the areola. He even got a small sweet sound out of Paul, biting it lightly with his teeth. Paul instinctively lifted his hips a small amount, and John could feel Paul’s stiffy prod against his clothed navel. Truly bliss. Paul...he loved Paul...ever moment, every second with him was a blessing. John wanted all he could get.

John spent a good amount of time on his chest, mouthing those lovely things. He had all the time in the world. Paul’s hips rolled slowly ever so often, and the graze of John’s teeth made sounds come from Paul’s petal lips, from low in his throat. John’s tongue trailed along the skin, feeling the softness and firmness. John kissed, and mouthed the entire surface, truly adoring it, truly savoring it. Paul was unearthly to him, a beauty unlike any other. For all he knew, Paul really was an angel, sent to him from up above.

_The Lord smiled down on me_

_And sent an angel to love_

_Right from paradise_

_I know you're an angel_

_Heaven is in your eyes_

_A smile from your lips brings the summer sunshine_

_The tears from your eyes bring the rain_

_I feel your touch, your warm embrace_

_And I'm in heaven again_

John gazed down at the beauty beneath him. It was pale, with the dark fluffy hair below, and the sweet pink puffies on that soft chest. Paul seemed serene again, allowing the sensation to take over. His head was empty, safe with John, as he should be.

John’s gaze moved lower. The stimulation had gotten paul good and hard. It was brilliant, how much playing with Paul’s chest stirred him up. Paul would never cum from that alone, but he would get more and more worked up, his prick growing increasingly hard, the fluid leaking from its pretty tip.

“Ah, Paul.” John sighted.

John’s hand encircled Paul’s hard-on gently, and held it up, pressing a soft kiss to the head. Moisture from the slit transferred to John’s lips, and he licked them. Delicious.

John’s hunger grew. Paul’s prick was hard and sweet, nice and warm. The head was rubbery, but the skin of the shaft was more delicate than anywhere else on Paul’s body, encasing such a hardness.

John took it in his mouth. He loved it. John would enter Paul, but John was also putting himself under Paul, taking him in his throat like this, letting Paul cut off his breath. John was happy to service him. He adored Paul. Paul deserved it. John moaned around the girth.

Paul’s blunt head pressed to the back of his throat. John took it deeper, his eyes rolling back. God was it good. Paul was hot inside his mouth, making it water. John braced his hands against Paul’s full thighs, the soft hair and skin against his palms making his arousal stir.

John focused his attention to pleasuring his dear friend. He looked up at Paul’s pretty face. Paul’s eyes were shut, his cheeks beginning to flush, as they always did. John’s heart grew at those long dark eyelashes quivering, his sweet lips pressed together. Paul’s hands rested gently on either side of him, fingers twitching.

He mumbled Paul’s name amorously around the girth, making Paul sigh, his body shifting. His eyes lidded dreamily, taking Paul deeper. John’s nose wrinkled, gagging on it. John tightened his lips, his tongue firm against the curve of Paul’s spine. He began to slowly, without hurry, move, letting his tongue slide against Paul’s sensitized spine, moving his head up and down.

Paul groaned and shifted his hips. John smiled around the girth. He knew how to please Paul. He knew Paul’s body like the back of his hand.

Paul’s hands came to John’s lightly, if only slightly, guiding John at the pace he wanted, his hips slowly moving. It seemed that he’d finally regained his mobility. John loved it, completely adored it. Paul groaned again. The sounds were so sweet in Paul’s voice, low and melodic. He loved every sound that came from Paul’s lips.

It was a give and take. John would put aside some of his masculinity to suck Paul off, and in turn, Paul would let John enter him. It was fair.

Paul twitched in his throat. John was working him up. He wanted Paul to feel nice. He didn’t want Paul to be afraid. John wanted to pleasure him. That’s all he’d ever wanted. Another groan from Paul.

John savored the feeling of Paul in his mouth for a few more moments, before lifting off. He had drooled onto Paul’s shaft quite a bit, making it have a slight sheen. A string of saliva connected his bottom lip to Paul’s tip a split second before breaking off.

John’s hunger stirred. He pushed Paul’s legs apart, staring lustfully down at the area exposed to him. Paul’s gentle stomach, those delicious hips, the skin, the soft dark body hair. He was truly beautiful. Even in a world where John wouldn’t have lusted after him, John would still see Paul as a work of art.

John licked up Paul’s stomach, feeling it shiver beneath his tongue.  
  
“Ah, Paul...I’ll do anything for ya.” John breathed into the skin, a man possessed.

  
He breathed in Paul’s gentle scent, pressing his cheek against the soft skin. It was addicting, an aphrodisiac made just for him.

“I need ya so badly.”

John was getting increasingly worked up. He’d gone through such strong emotions in such a short amount of time, but Paul was under him, accepting him. John sat up, fumbling with his fly. He’d unbuttoned it before realizing he couldn’t just enter him like a bird. John’s hands felt around his sides. He didn’t have his suit jacket, no vaseline. Christ, it could be such a hassle sometimes.

Not Paul, of course. It wasn’t Paul’s fault there was an extra step in fucking him. Paul was perfect, in every way, and so was his passage, a perfect fit for John...as soon as he was able to get inside it of course.

  
John didn’t want to divert attention, for even a second. Paul could suddenly change his mind...Paul could leave him.

John put aside the state of his own lust for the moment. He leant back down, pushing Paul’s thighs apart. He knew spit often wasn’t enough, but he could try to prepare Paul as well as he could, make sure it wouldn’t hurt.

When John’s lips grazed past Paul’s balls, over his perineum, Paul’s stomach turned in nausea at what was to come. He groaned in disgust, his face hot.

“C’mon, Paul. I’ll prepare ya nice.

Paul tried to distance himself as John ate him out as if he had a cunt. It was always disgusting to him, making his stomach turn at where John was putting his mouth. It didn’t even seem to be a hangup for John. Paul would never even lick a broad down there. Absolutely vile.

The wetness and heat there felt wrong. John’s tongue kept pressing inside, trying to push in, stretch the clench of muscle. Paul grimaced, another sound of discomfort, a shiver at the obscenity. John’s hands were on his thighs, pushing them apart, trying to get his tongue deeper, stroking the skin. 

Paul’s gut ached where John had hit him earlier. His head still throbbed from the impact. He’d have a bruise there later, like that other night. Paul could see the bruise on John’s face too, where Paul had hit him. 

A burst of sharp pleasure went through Paul’s abdomen. Paul cried out, but immediately bit his lip, stifling it. If John was able to get deep enough, the very tip of his tongue would graze against that damned spot inside of him, making his eyesight blur. Paul let out an ugly sound of pleasure.

John made a giddy sound from below him. It was humiliating. Paul’s face was hot. His prick was still hard, resting on his stomach. The nosh had worked him up, bringing him close. That didn’t seem to be John’s only intention for the night.

John raised his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes caught Paul’s and he smiled. Paul didn’t want to look anywhere. His gaze drifted.

John spat onto his fingers. All this saliva, it was making Paul sick.

Paul’s entrance was a bit more accepting from John’s efforts. He moved two fingers in, sliding in easily. It was mesmerizing, watching Paul take his fingers, watch them go inside his beautiful partner. John could also feel the heat and tightness of the passage. John knew how it felt tightening around other parts of him. It was heavenly. On his tongue too, it clenched around him perfectly. Paul’s entrance would always coax him deeper, want him. At least this part of Paul was honest, knowing what it needed, that they were meant to be connected.

John began to pump his fingers in and out, getting Paul accustomed to the sensation. He tried to twist them, stretching Paul out.

John was able to get three fingers in. He spat on them again. He wanted to take no chances when it came to inflicting pain onto Paul, especially through sex.

John searched, then quickly found that spot inside Paul, smiling as he found the small bump. He pressed intensely into it, massaging deep into it. Paul’s back arched and he _moaned,_ the pleasure crystal clear, written across his features. John smiled even wider.

“Good, isn’t it, Macca?” John purred. He kept massaging that spot, working Paul up, watching that sensation overtake him. John knew it was pleasurable for him. It was easy to tell. Paul mumbled incoherent things from his parted lips, his eyes rolling back. His mouth was slack. A beautiful sight. John would inflict more pleasure on him soon.

John was sure Paul was sufficiently ready. John would begin slowly, ease Paul into it. John was worked up himself, a persistent nagging from his arousal. It knew what was happening down there, and it knew where it belonged, and where it wanted to be. Inside of Paul.

John lined himself up, pressing himself against Paul’s small entrance. He reached for Paul’s soft large hand, holding it tightly, soothing Paul. John caressed it with his thumb. He loved feeling Paul’s hands in his, Paul’s gentle, soft, slender fingers. John could admit it now. To hell with the worry of being a sentimentalist. He loved Paul, and would hold his fucking hand if he damn well wanted to.

John began to apply subtle pressure. Paul was stretched from his efforts, the saliva doing its job. Still, there was some resistance that wouldn’t have been there if John had vaseline.

Paul gave a small pained sound, his sweet deep voice. There was more friction than usual. Paul’s discomfort was his discomfort. John spoke softly, trying to make it better as ke kept pushing in slowly.

“M’sorry, Macca. You can take’it. You’re strong.” John murmured softly. “C’mon, Macca, take’it.”

John was completely inside him now. As always, he stalled there, relishing in the moment, taken by awe.

Paul was also still, his legs spread far apart, accommodating the stretch, the girth pushed inside him. Paul’s long bent legs twitched on either side of John. He looked up at the ceiling glassily.

John’s eyes fell shut. He opened them again, looking spellbound down at the beauty he was connected to. Paul was a complete beauty, his dark hair and lovely eyes, soft sweet face. Even with the slight stubble Paul had, John found him beautiful. He was a beauty removed from the dichotomy of gender, features from both blending seamlessly. He wanted to bury himself in Paul’s chest, feel safe, close to him. John wanted Paul’s love and comfort. He couldn’t bear the thought of Paul leaving him. _Paul couldn’t leave him._

In a trance, John pressed his palm to Paul’s lower abdomen.

“Ya feel’it, Paul?” John said softly. His voice was vulnerable, speaking from the heart. “M’inside ya. S’good, Paul. S’beautiful.”

Paul groaned, low in his throat. John’s features softened even more. His sweet little Macca. John adored him wholly. He’d hold Paul close. No harm would come to him. Paul would never be taken by those men who selfishly craved him, seeing him as a filthy forbidden thrill, wanting to _take_ pleasure from Paul, rather than give it. Paul wasn’t that. The very thought sickened John.

Paul shifted, trying to find room inside him for the intrusion. There was more friction than normal, aiding to the discomfort. Paul knew how it felt. It was an organ, forced inside an entrance not made for it. John was swollen inside of him, twitching, leaking. It was just as it always was. Nothing was different.

John increased the pressure of his palm. Paul made a sound of discomfort, his eyes unfocused. John was making him hyperaware of it, that there was something inside of him. Paul could feel the stretch and presence of the object.

“Do ya see’it, Paul?” John pleaded. “We’re connected. S’beautiful. It’s supposed to be this way. Do ya feel’it, Paul?”

Paul’s eyes drifted to him. John was searching his expression, trying to find what he wanted to see. Paul’s lips tightened.

“Oh, Paul…”

John held Paul close to him, mouth on Paul’s neck. John was touching him gently. John was soothing him.

John began to move, but only slowly. He cared for Paul’s comfort in his own twisted way. Paul didn’t want it, but John cared for him. Paul knew he did.

Paul reciprocated the embrace, much to John’s happiness. Paul knew in his mind somewhere it was illogical, but Paul was afraid. He wanted to be held, he wanted the comfort of it. Somehow, he could separate the John who had wanted him dead, and the John he used to know. John was being kind to him now. It wasn’t the same type of kindness John had shown him before, but it was kindness nonetheless. A warm body was embracing him, a familiar scent and presence of somebody he once cared for a great deal. It did give Paul relief. His body trembled with the aftershocks of it.

At the reciprocation, John’s voice grew more impassioned.

“Ah, Paul...Paul...I love’ya terribly. I need ya somethin’ awful, _Paul…_ ”

John stroked his back and his sides. John didn’t touch him as if he were feeling Paul up, there was a care to it. Suppose at times, John had a reverence whilst touching Paul, in disbelief it was real. Guilt began to grow in him as Paul shivered.

“I’m sorry I scared ya, my love.” John said soft as he could muster in his harsh voice. He kissed near Paul’s ear, where his sideburn was. He repeated quieter. “My love...my love…”

John kissed Paul’s face.

“Don’ want’ta cause ya pain. Be happy, Paul. I’ll give ya a lovely lifetime.”

John kept moving inside of Paul. It was a bit difficult, but he made sure he wasn’t hurting Paul. It was beautiful. Paul held him so well, taking him. He was so close to the person he held most dear.

John’s eyes moved over Paul’s features, a growing smile of contentment. He’d since memorized them, but he traced them with his eyes over and over, making sure he’d never forget even the slightest thing. His hand moved slowly to cup it. He stroked his thumb along the surface of Paul’s chin.

“I love yer little, cleft ‘here…”

John kept fucking him at a steady pace, trying to graze that spot inside of him (and succeeding). He was beyond taken with Paul, giving all of himself to him. Paul might be pegged as the more feminine of the two, his beauty clear to see, but at times John felt he took on that role with Paul, in the way John devoted himself to him, pleased him, attended to him. Paul was above him in a lot of ways.

John resumed stroking Paul off, slowly, keeping with the pace. He didn’t want Paul to release too quickly before him, but his main goal was to give Paul pleasure, not take it from his body. It was unfortunate, having to slide an arm between them for this, separate them, but it was more important to John to see Paul’s face as they made love.

Paul’s face was getting more flushed, averting his gaze. Release was building up in John as well. He suspected it wouldn’t be a long session for either of them, as overwhelmed by the previous events as they both were.

John was cupping Paul’s face, stroking his cheeks softly, searching his eyes.

“I love ya, Paul.” John strained, his voice unsure and pleading. “Paul...you...love’me, right? You do?”

Paul’s head was spinning. Nothing felt solid. Ever since John had nearly killed him, he wasn’t sure what was real. John was inside of him, fucking him, completely convinced it was a beautiful act. Paul had let him.

John was looking at him so sincerely. Paul didn’t know what love was anymore. Maybe John did feel it, and it was enough to make a man mad. Paul didn’t know why this had been put on him, of all people.

He did love John once. John was his brother. Paul trusted him with everything he had. It was him and John, against the world, succeeding at long last.

Paul’s eyes drifted upwards. He closed them. He gave a short nod.

“Oh, Paul!” John explained, his voice full of emotion. It was as if John was doubtful Paul would accept him, but he did.

It prompted him to fuck Paul deeper, more impassioned.

“You do? Paul, you do?”

  
Paul curled his arms around his partner. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing as he shivered.

This seemed to overwhelm John like nothing else. John’s lips were on him over and over. It seemed that he was near tears, the happiest he’d ever been. “Ah, Paul...Ah, Paul…” he kept repeating.

Paul held him tight in return. He didn’t cry, but he felt that emotion in him. Paul had so many regrets. With all he could, he pretended it was the John he missed dearly. Paul wouldn’t have wanted to be engaging in what they currently were with that John, but he tried to push aside the sexual sensations within him as an afterthought, rather focusing on the embrace. Holding him close, as Paul should’ve done years back. There was so much he regretted saying. He regretted not telling him this, back when John was still the same man as before, a man he really did love. Now, Paul could never tell him. He could tell this one, and this John would be quite happy hearing it, but it wouldn’t go through to the dear friend Paul lost. He wasn’t in there any longer.

Paul’s sensations increased. It was building up inside of him, John was coaxing it out of him. He couldn’t stop his voice. John’s hand was stroking him off very swiftly, pounding against that spot inside of him. Small sounds escaped Paul’s lips, deep little whines too. It would’ve been embarrassing, but he sought release.

“C’mon Paul, cum for me. I want’it. Wan’ta see’it.” John cooed, his voice also affected.

Paul’s hips shuddered, the familiar bursts of pleasure reverberating through him. He cried out gently, but it was both ice cold and white hot within him. It was much better than the ones from the aphrodisiac, no pain with it, no maddening intensity. Only pleasure, and satisfaction.

“So good, Macca. Tha’s so good. Cum for’me...lovely…”

John’s voice was overtaken by emotion as well, breaking as he attempted to finish his sentence.

John held him tighter, crying out for him. Paul’s orgasm was too much, Paul tightening as it coursed through him. The very sight of Paul overtaken by pleasure made his lust increase tenfold, as if John were feeling it himself. 

“Paul, Paul, oh, Paul…”

John was released into him. Paul had felt it many times before. It wasn’t particularly pleasant. John stifled his own sounds, cutting them off. He didn’t want to hear them.

“Christ, Paul. _God...”_ John strained.

John slowed as he came down from it, his arms still around Paul, eyes wide and open in sensation, nose buried in Paul’s shoulder. Paul was a safe place. Paul made his heart slow, and his breaths come easy. Paul also excited him, made his hands shake and body heat up. Paul made him want to shout into the empty sky, how badly John needed him. He traveled all over, had a house up North, and their shared flat in the city, but Paul was the only constant. Paul was his home. The swift success could toss him across every corner of this vast world, places he’d never even heard of, and never expected to go, but he’d always find solace in Paul’s arms, Paul’s lovely presence. Paul was his partner, but also his wife and his lover, his dearest and closest confidante, his oldest and most beloved friend. 

His heartbeat slowed. Paul’s arms were curled around him. It hurt where Paul had hit him. Paul was strong, Paul had the strength any other man did, it would bruise. It was alright. He had hurt Paul too, but it was fine. Paul was in his arms now, and Paul was holding him back. John felt at peace. John never felt this way any other time of his life, never like this, the way he felt when Paul was in his arms, just after making love to him. It never felt this way with the women, not even his wife. None of them were what Paul was to him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	28. Chapter 28

John didn’t even take birds anymore. He was simply uninterested in them. He only had eyes for Paul. Nearly every night, he wanted to be with Paul. All he wanted was Paul.

He didn’t want Paul taking birds either. John used to not care if he did, but he didn’t want Paul away from him, for even a night. Even though he knew Paul didn’t care for them, John didn’t want them to get to see Paul in ecstasy the way he did. They didn’t deserve him.

They were working on the film now. Paul didn’t end up talking to Brian that day. They were filming.

They had been filming a theater scene the other day. They mimed a couple of their songs, and went along with the scripts. They weren’t good actors, but it was good fun.

There were these girls about for the scenes, dressed in burlesque costumes. They were rather mesmerizing to watch, with their feather things, long legs, and revealing bodices. 

Paul had tried to chat up one of them, and she was good for it too. He couldn’t tear his eyes from those long eyelashes, and tits spilling out of her bodice. Paul wanted her, and she was receptive. Of course she would be.

John had closed in on the both of them, pulling him away. The girl was confused, but John was playful about it. To an outside eye, it could look like horseplay, John being his knavish self, taking Paul away from a sure thing because of a more pressing matter the famous duo had to attend to.

Once he pulled Paul out of her line of sight, into a nearby corner, John hissed under his voice.

_ “What’re you doin’ with her?” He snapped, hostile. He wasn’t playful now. _

_ Paul looked at him coldly. _

_ “What does it fuckin’ look like?” Paul shot back. “Was gonna damn well fuck her. She was good for it, ‘till you fuckin’ stepped in.” _

_ John grew more frustrated. _

_ “No yer fuckin’ not.” John seethed. “No more, Paul. They don’t deserve ya, all these easy fuckin’ slags. I’m dead tired of seein’ it!” _ _   
  
_

_ Paul’s voice was incredulous. _

_ “Hell, John! M’not gonna stop fuckin’ girls ‘cause you want me to! You’re mad!” _

_ John’s voice turned pained. _

_ “Why do ya have’ta hurt me, Paul?” He said, before taking on an angrier tone. “It’s a real thorn in my side! I love ya Paul, I love ya like nothin’ else...but you fuck anythin’ you can! Why? It’s sickening!” _

_ John’s voice lowered further, turning hateful, low enough so others wouldn’t overhear. He gripped Paul tight by the jaw. It hurt, and Paul winced. _

_ “God Paul…” John muttered, no love in his voice. “...you disgust me sometimes. Disgustin’ fuckin whore you are. You’ve got no morals. All you want is to get your prick wet, no matter what it makes ya!” _

_ John jerked Paul’s face. Paul had lost his forcefulness. He was afraid. John would hurt him again. Paul didn’t want him to. His body was cold, trembling. John wanted him to hurt. _

_ “Why, Paul? Why?” John pleaded, sadness in it. his voice rose, getting worked up again. “I can please ya! I tell ya, everythin’ I have, Paul...but ya still...you…you don’ fuckin care!” _

_ John let go, then hit him sharply across the face. Paul fell back, clutching where John’s fist made contact. He shivered, unable to move, his body in a defensive position. _

_ John faltered, his anger depleting, quickly replaced with guilt. _

_ “M’sorry, Paul!” John whispered harshly, the immediate regret in his voice. He reached out to him, clutching Paul’s shoulders, trying to fix it. “M’sorry, m’sorry, I didn’t mean’ta, Paul...m’sorry!” _

_ John didn’t move closer, in case somebody came round the corner and saw them. John tried to soothe him, rubbing his shoulders. Paul was still frozen, holding his face. _

_ “Please don’t do it Paul. It hurts.” John pleaded, keeping his voice down. “I shouldn’ta hit you, m’sorry. I won’t do it again, promise...but please don’ do this to’me. I can give ya anythin’ you’re lookin’ for from those birds, I can give ya more than them. I love ya, Paul. Nobody loves ya the way I do!” _

It was hell.

John lived under the façade that he was giving Paul a choice. If Paul denied him, John would apologize, and quickly stop. He never forced himself on Paul, like he had promised.

But that didn’t mean anything. Somehow, John would slip that aphrodisiac into what he ate, or drank. Paul didn’t know how it worked. Paul could’ve not touched anything for a bit, yet the feeling would come without warning. He would begin to feel hot, his face burning. Paul would claw at his skin, rid himself of his clothes, try to fuck into his hands, but it would all be in vain. Paul couldn’t find satisfaction no matter he did, crying and whining in frustration. John would watch with moonlike eyes, staring at Paul with a mesmerized expression. But John wouldn’t touch him, not until it became too much. He would only touch him once Paul was crying out, begging, for John to help. Paul would be dying, and he needed John to make it stop.

John had told Paul he could wait it out. If he wanted to, he could fuck his hands for any relief he could, and the effects would fade slowly over the next few hours. He said if Paul wanted, he’d leave him be, and it was his choice in the end. That was such awful bullshit. Paul didn’t have a choice. When faced with such horrible arousal, the option of relief available, of course he would choose the latter every time. It didn’t matter what it cost him.

John would end up fucking him, and Paul would be reciprocative, needing it badly. He wasn’t in the right state of mind. Every touch made his body burn with lust, the satisfaction of hands on him, touching him, groping him. Paul would lean into every touch, making the ugliest sounds.

John would hold him afterwards, the exhaustion overtaking Paul. John would whisper sweet things into Paul’s hair, soothe his strained, cooling body.

Paul had begun to just give into it now, if John asked. Better than having to deal with that horrible aphrodisiac. John would be soft with him then, taking him slowly, taking his time, completely convinced it was an unearthly act. With John seemingly no longer interested in birds, it was even more often than before. He was fixated on Paul, being around him. 

There would even be nights where John didn’t even try it, even though they were alone. It was the closest things would get to the way they were before. John would speak to him about things they used to, the music, and the current events. Paul would be receptive, numbly engaging in it. What else could he do?

Still, it was not the same as before. There was always a softness when John spoke to him now, (though looking back, there had always been a certain fondness in John’s voice when directed at him, going back years). At this point, John had no reason to hold back his touches. He put his lips anywhere on Paul if he felt the urge. John seemed to like having a hand on him. At the end of the night, John might’ve not even tried anything, content with falling asleep, keeping Paul close to him in his embrace.

It was suffocating. Paul used to be this close to him. That wasn’t the problem. He remembered being with John for long stretches of time. They were good mates, of course they would be. They used to write, for hours at a time, sleeping tops and tails, then continuing in the morning. It was normal then. 

  
They’d gone to Paris together, sharing the small hotel room John was able to afford. People said they were joined at the hip. It got even more so once the fame started. They were closer to each other than anyone else in the world, the two of them, traveling all over, each other being a constant. It wasn’t the closeness that was strange. It was even a comfort for Paul, being so close to another person, somebody you could rely on like that.

But now Paul didn’t have a second to breathe. He didn’t go out. Even if he did, John would also be there. John didn’t go out either. Even if he did go out, he couldn’t fuck birds, even if he wanted to. He’d wake up in the morning, and he’d go to film, and John would be with him then also. He was always there, and at the end of the day, they’d return to their flat. More often than not, at the end of the day, John would fuck him. The attention was always on Paul, too. His body would be kissed, his hands would be, and his face. 

John must think he was being kind, with how he spoke to him, and how delicate his touches were. Perhaps if Paul were one of his girls, she’d be over the moon, all this attention. But he wasn’t! Paul wasn’t a bird, and he didn’t want this. He’d never want this!

Paul wanted out. He wished this had never happened. He would’ve never expected that this was the direction his life would take.

Paul couldn’t leave. John had made that very clear. He would kill Paul, and had shown he was fully capable of it.

It was a hopeless situation. His only escape was death.

Unless…

Paul didn’t want to do it.

John would never let him go. Paul knew this. John had told him so, that he wanted to be with Paul until the day he died. 

Paul only had one option now.

Paul could get his hands on things. He was a big star. Many restrictions weren’t imposed on him. Few questions were asked.

John had drugged Paul so many times. He’d put Paul to sleep, he’d put Paul in a dreamlike trance. He made Paul’s body burn with unbearable lust. John didn’t care. He only wanted to get what he wanted out of Paul.

Paul had a small vial in his hand, a small amount of a clear liquid, nearly blue in the light. It was kept in his coat pocket, secure in there. 

The idea broke Paul’s heart. It was a horrible feeling, a deep sinking in his chest. Paul mourned. He mourned deeply. He never thought it would come to this, or that his life would come to this point. God. It hurt him so badly.

He truly loved John once. He still wanted that John. Paul knew he was gone, but whenever he saw John, all he could see was his old friend, maybe deep inside there. Even if he’d never existed, Paul wanted him. His brother, his closest confidante. Paul truly did love him once. He would’ve given John all he could give to a man, but there was a limit to that, and John had wanted more.

Paul wished it had never happened. Even if John snapped out of it the very next morning, things could never go back to the way they were. It was too late for that now, the familiarity of John’s presence forever damaged. 

Paul would choose to remember John as he used to be. Only Paul had experienced what he was capable of. To everyone else, he would live on as a martyr. Gone before his time. It was senseless.

John wouldn’t be able to hurt him anymore. Paul could forget all that happened. It wasn’t real. John was his dear friend. John loved him as Paul thought he did, a brother, and a partner, his other half. Paul wouldn’t think of the times John had hurt him, how John had violated him, how he’d gone mad.

He’d think back to their early days. Paul would remember writing their first big hit. They had no clue how big it would be, but their drive was genuine. In part, they wanted to get girls, but they truly loved the music. It was their passion, and together, they were able to create something great.

It was a moment outside of time, writing the words, and the melody, face to face.

There was the raunchy side to it too, playing beside strippers, a young George missing his chords that time a particularly busty one dropped her top. John and him had laughed at their young friend’s expense, then got their earnings together, and bought a couple for the night. Like brothers in arms, in the trenches of battle, working hard to get where they were. The uppers would get them high, and the crashes would come just as hard. Paul’s mates were there throughout the good and bad, John always a constant companion. They’d gone through it together.

John used to be soft with him at times, but it was all in good nature. John had always had a deep affection for him. Paul knew this, even through the humor and facetiousness, John made it known. John’s voice would get lower, genuineness in his tone. His expression would soften, his gaze sincere. 

There were things they couldn’t do, but it was all needless. Paul wished he had taken him in his arms when he had the chance, told John he loved him. Paul did love him. Maybe then John wouldn’t have gone so far with it all, mad with the craving. Paul should’ve made it known, he knew John needed it from him. Paul had many regrets.

Paul didn’t want to go through with it.

But this man wasn’t that same John as before, the one he’d loved. That one died some time ago. Paul had been mourning for him. He was long gone. Paul had to come to terms with it, the lookalike wasn’t him. 

He sounded like John, and looked like him, but the day John’s hands were around his throat, there had been no light in his eyes. His John, the one he wanted for, wasn’t anywhere in there. John would never hurt him like this, John would never even consider...it wouldn’t even cross his mind... _ killing  _ Paul.

Paul knew he’d never have his old friend back. If Paul wasn’t able to go through with it, he would only continue to suffer, and this John would fall deeper and deeper into the spiral of his madness, never able to escape. If anything, this was a kindness. This was the kindest thing he could do for John. If Paul truly loved him, he would find the strength to go through with this, and Paul did love him, as much as he could.

John would live on in Paul’s memory, as he used to be. If he ever felt alone, Paul would recall the better times. He knew John better than anybody could. Paul could think of him, imagine what he would say. John’s humor and biting wit. The John he loved. That John would always be a part of him, and he’d be forever alive in the depths of Paul’s mind.

This new John...the one completely overtaken by this sickness...he would be gone. He wouldn’t be able to hurt Paul any longer.

Paul would slip the vile into his drink, and it would stop his heart.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	29. Chapter 29

It was another day of filming. None of them were good actors, but it was amusing. It was a good day.

The group returned to their flat. There was idle conversation, but Paul didn’t have much to say. He sat and listened, looking from face to face of his closest friends. Paul felt numb. They seemed so happy in their group. Paul wished it could’ve stayed like this for longer, the four of them, happy together.

It was like nothing happened, if you took this one moment alone. John looked exactly like he always did, they all looked the same, spoked the same, and joked the same. Paul tried to commit the moment to memory. He wanted to remember their group like this. Paul would miss it.

Ultimately, they wanted to go out. Paul didn’t, neither did John. John didn’t go out anymore on his own, preferring to stay where Paul was, even if he didn’t end up fucking him. Paul had no reason to go out. He didn’t want to drink, he didn’t want to fuck broads, and John wouldn’t let him anymore. It would just be a depressing reminder of how Paul’s life used to be, no cares, only pleasure and fame.

Furthermore, Paul didn’t want to be around John if he was drinking. Paul didn’t want to take the risk of getting John angry under the influence of liquor again. He didn’t want to find out what John would do to him.

When the other two were gone, John’s head turned to him. Paul looked back, meeting his gaze. Paul had no emotion behind the eyes. The man looked like John, and spoke like John, but wasn’t him. 

John was smiling at him.

“You don’ want to go out, Paul?”

Paul shook his head.

“No.” Paul said. “How about…”   
  


Paul trailed off. John was still looking at him expectantly. Paul took a breath, and began again.

“You win, John. I won’t leave.” Paul said. “It’s alright now...we...I’ll be with ya. There.”

John’s face of confusion grew into happiness. He beamed at Paul.

“I knew you’d come round.” John said adoringly. He held out his arms. “C’mere Paul. Let me adore ya.”

Paul got up from the opposite armchair, coming closer. He loosely, hesitantly, embraced John. John’s arms came tight around him, giving him an loving squeeze. John hummed with contentment.

Paul shivered when John’s lips were on his ear, then on his neck. Luckily, it didn’t seem to be sexual, only affectionate.

“I knew’it Paul!” John trailed off blissfully, a bit mumbly. “Oh, m’love, m’love...I knew you’d come round, be ‘happy with’me. S’supposed to be like’this, the two of’us. They wouldn’t put ya here to be miserable Paul…”

A kiss was placed on the side of Paul’s face, then the side of his neck. It made Paul melancholic, John’s softness with him. Suppose there was the aspect of unconscious relief, at the touches not being rough instead. Paul never knew which side of this John he’d get.

Paul shifted away from the embrace, and luckily, John let go easily. John was still smiling at him in happiness.

“How about we have a drink together?” Paul said, his voice a bit slow. “We can start talking about our next LP. S’not too early, hm?”

John’s expression further softened.    
  
“You’re fine with drinkin’ with me again?” He said.

Paul gave a short nod. His expression was blank, but John didn’t seem to mind it.

Paul fixed the both of them scotch and cokes. It was better scotch than they used to have. They were sent things often, gifts. A girl had promised him a racing greyhound in a letter once. Paul had never gotten that greyhound.

They sat together in the living area. Paul took a sip or two from his drink, but didn’t quite want to get a buzz.

Paul gazed lazily at his friend. John didn’t seem to want him tonight, simply content with his company, like it was before.

Though John was softer with him now. Too soft. Paul somewhat missed the harsher tone John used to use with him, the wit and humor. It felt more like they were mates, speaking like that. There were traces of it, when they were all together, and in public with the press. At the moment though, they were alone, adn John spoke to him as if Paul were his lover.

Despite that, Paul tried to commit this moment to memory, how John looked and acted. John hadn’t changed much in appearance. 

Paul would always remember him, love him and miss him. But that John wasn’t the one in front of him. The one with him now was only a shell. To lose this one, was to finally be free, not lose his dearest and closest friend. Paul had already lost him a long time ago.

They spoke about their music a bit, but conversation strayed. It was calming, speaking like this. John was halfway through his drink. He took another sip before speaking.

“Can I hear ya sing, Paul?” John said, a spontaneous request.

Paul was taken aback by the question, but his acoustic was beside him. They normally kept their instruments around them as they wrote. Paul slowly picked it up.

“What’d you like to hear?” Paul said, a bit of sadness, looking down at it.

John thought to himself, a smile still on his face.

“How about a ballad?” He said. “How about...Days of Wine and Roses? ...that’s a real nice one...wanna hear it in yer voice...Do you know how to play’it?”

“Yeah.” Paul said. He gave a small exhale.

“Alright.”

Paul could figure out how it’d translate to guitar chords, first trying to find the melody, then he sang.

He saw how John was watching him, his gaze soft and contented, mesmerized as Paul’s hands moved along the neck of the guitar, Paul’s voice filling his ears.   
  
John was beginning to look a bit dazed…

It had been a while now since they’d sat down, and began drinking...

John watched captivated, until Paul finished the song.

“That’s beautiful.” John said, his voice breathy. There was no humor in it, looking at Paul as if he hung the stars. “You’re... really something, Paul…”

Paul was looking down at his acoustic, a small smile on his face. He looked a bit sad. John felt nothing but warmth within himself. This was a perfect moment, just the two of them. When he caught Paul’s eye, he smiled at him, and Paul smiled back, meeting his gaze. But still...his eyes looked sad.

“Paul?” He said, smile still intact.

There was a bit of unease within John. He...felt a bit strange. His surrounding were beginning to get, sort of, foggier. He hadn’t drank that much of his drink, had he?

Still, he was happy with the moment, which overshadowed that.

He wanted to go to Paul, but his limbs felt heavy, and so did his tongue. It was a bit hard to speak. He still smiled though.

Much to his happiness, Paul came closer to him, despite John not being able to. Paul was standing in front of him, as he sat on the couch, looking down at him. John’s chest filled with warmth. What an angel he was. 

It seemed like it too. As his surroundings began to get fuzzier, the light from the lamp seemed to cast a halo around Paul’s dark, lovely hair. Maybe he was an angel.

“Hullo, Paul.” John said, a smile on his face.

“Hullo.”

John looked over his features. Such a beauty. Paul was smiling down at him. Such a lovely smile. John felt quite dazed. What had he taken…? He couldn’t remember. Suppose it didn’t matter now. He felt comfortable, sitting on the couch.

Paul’s lips were moving, his voice was soothing. John squinted, trying to make out the words.

“Nothin’ hurts does’it?” Paul was saying softly, sadness in his voice. “Are ya feelin’ alright?”

John frowned, trying to make sense of it. Of course he felt alright.

“Feel’fine.” John said. Nothing  _ hurt, _ really, but it was getting a bit harder to speak.

Paul moved. He sat beside him. John’s head turned, following his movements.

John knew his vision was bad, but it was never this bad. It seemed a bit blurrier. He frowned, but Paul’s face was closer, so he could see his features clearer. John regained his smile. What a beauty he was. Paul’s eyes were dark, and sweet, every facial feature gentle and soft.

Paul wasn’t smiling at him anymore. He was still looking at him, looking a bit sad. It made John feel bad. He wanted to fix whatever it was.

“Paul?” He said.

Paul’s eyes focused on him.

“S’not fair, John.” Paul said, his voice hoarse. “Forgive’m.”

John was confused, but still wanted to help him.

“Eh?” John said. “S’fine...m’alright.”

John smiled at him dizzily.

“Paul?”

Paul still looked empty. John wanted to reach out to him, but his arms were heavy. John kept looking at him with concern. He spoke the first thing he could think to say.

“I love ya, Paul.”

Paul grew sadder, hearing this. His eyebrows drew, and his gaze drifted downward. His lips tightened. 

“I did love ya once, John.” Paul said quietly. “Believe’me. As much as I could love another man.”

John felt his heart fill with warmth upon hearing this, those words, from Paul’s lips. His mind was having trouble with it, but he heard Paul say that he loved him. That’s all he ever wanted to hear.

Paul was beautiful. Everything around him was darkening and blurring, but the light shone around his head like a halo, like a holy figure from those old museum paintings.

“Paul…” John breathed, his words difficult to articulate. He kept losing his train of thought, unable to tear his gaze from Paul’s features. He spoke again. 

“Are ya...are ya an angel…?”

Paul’s gaze drifted downward, his eyes squeezing shut. Paul was clenching his fists. John didn’t understand. He was finally able to find mobility, and reach for him. His arms wrapped around Paul. John didn’t have much strength, but luckily, Paul reciprocated, allowing him to be pulled closer. Paul’s familiarity and warmth gave him a deep contentment. Paul’s gentle arms were embracing him back. John’s whole body felt happiness. Paul’s soft exhales were on his neck, holding him tight in a way he hadn’t felt from him in a while. John held him back to the best of his ability.

“Paul…” John said. His voice was weak, but Paul’s name was easy to say. John loved the name. There was only one Paul to him, and it was his angel.

Hearing him, Paul pulled his head back. Opening his eyes, Paul’s face was all John could focus on, but even his features were beginning to blur. John was struggling to look at him, and he was beginning to get distressed because of it. What was happening to him? He wanted to see Paul’s lovely face, but try as he might, the features only got blurrier. It was so frustrating...John felt as if he would sob. Paul...why was this happening…?

“John…” Paul said.

John’s ears perked up at the voice. It was a beautiful one, calling his name. John felt like he was hearing it through a radio though, or through water. Things were getting less coherent. His head hurt a bit. John felt drowsy. It was becoming harder to think.

Paul was speaking again, a soft sad voice.

“John, I love ya.” He said. “I...I hope ya find peace. I hope I see ya again someday, an’...it’d be like’it used to be.”

Paul’s voice broke.

“I’ll miss ya...so much John.”

John felt helpless, unable to console him. He wanted to fix it, but he could barely keep Paul’s face corporeal, dark spots in his vision. John didn’t know what was happening. He was afraid.

“Paul…” John’s voice was weak. Paul would make it better. He always did. “...Paul, I can’ see…”

Paul’s eyes shut tight in distress. 

“M’sorry...m’sorry.” Paul said. His voice was hurt, choked even. John didn’t understand.

He saw Paul blink his eyes open. He pushed down whatever pain he had, and looked John in the eye. John looked back, his field of view unsteady.

“Here…” Paul said. His voice was apologetic, but gentle. It fell soft against John’s ears. “Isn’t this what ya wanted?”

Every once of John’s confusion and distress melted away in a second. Paul’s soft lips pressed against his of their own free will, kissing him softly.

John no longer worried about his fading vision. He let his eyes slowly fall shut. The sensation was perfect, brighter and truer than anything around him. Paul’s scent was gentle and familiar, those lips loving and soft. Paul’s stubble grazed against him, making it unmistakable who he was kissing.

John knew his whole life culminated in this. His uncertainty when he was young, all of his anger and self-doubt, meeting Paul that day. He remembered the first moment Paul’s eyes met his, that silly looking thing with his arched eyebrows and quaffed hair. How he became a big success, the thrill, but also the stress. Paul was the only answer to it all, warm against him, those lips against his in this simple display of love.

John was floating. It was bliss, pure bliss.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**The End**

  
  
  



	30. Afterword

Here it is, the (thrilling?) conclusion. The final cherry on top of this terrible bummer of a story. Rest assured I was very sad writing it. I’m no callous bastard, I kept tearing up like a little bitch. I don’t even remember writing it once it's over, I swear. I’m probably going to re-read this in a week once the memory of writing it has faded, and cry or something. Despite this, I thought this would be the most fitting ending. The story would be poorly served if Paul ended up returning the affections, and living happily ever after. I felt that any other route would be anticlimactic. I can’t say if it's the right ending, but it’s the one I wrote. Feel free to interpret the ending however you want.

Again, I can’t stress how much I mean no disrespect to these actual people. I don’t wish death on either of them. Writing such a long story, there becomes a bit of a disconnect between the real life versions, and the characterizations I’ve developed. Obviously, nothing here actually happened, and John’s characterization in particular is VERY far removed from the actual person. I don’t know these guys in real life, and despite interpreting them in my own way, I can’t claim to know what’s actually going on in their heads.

It sucks considering the real life connotation that comes with my ending, and I’m not gonna touch that. Take it as a fictional concept coming to fruition, and not me playing out some fantasy of killing him. It sucks about the real-life context! I don’t hate the guy, I swear! The real one is probably nothing like my portrayal of him. I’ve gone a bit all-out with the whole “descent into madness” thing. I know I did him really dirty with it. If I ever meet John in real life, he’s free to hit me in the face as hard as he can. I won’t be offended. I deserve it. Sorry, man.

So, how do I sleep at night? Well, not that great, really. I’ve never been good at it. Mostly, I don’t fully process that I’ve written this. I know a lot of people are disgusted by what I write, and that’s fair. It’s pretty fucked up. It’s a bit therapeutic writing fucked up stuff, if that makes sense. Sort of like venting sort of. The “this is fucked up” feeling while writing gives me a sort of anxiousness, making me feel calmer when I’m done.

I truly don’t want to harm people with the subject matter, and I have the warnings. I moderate the comments because I don’t want to argue with what should or shouldn’t be written about. If you don’t like something else about the story, or the way I write, that’s valid. Lastly, it's highly unlikely that the people in this story, or their relatives, will read this. They’re unaffected by this story existing, and still very wealthy, so that’s not something I worry about. I don’t know why people need to get mad on their behalf. 

Writing this thing was surely a trip. I’ve found that writing for fun has been a great distraction from the pandemic and other things, and I’ve forgotten how much I enjoy it. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it (if that’s the right word), but if not, I don’t blame you. This story was a real bummer. There are a lot of great works on this site, hopefully you’ll find another you enjoy reading. If I do anything else, it will likely be under anonymous.


End file.
